#but hey at least they got the picture of the whale correct

[local-hellhound-steals-spaghetti]

Who wants to bet these "documentaries" are just regurgitating Blackfish and they haven't done any other research?

Or consider the learning history of an animal that never saw a person in the water with him until Keltie fell in and was dragged under by the two dominant females who regularly bullied him out of having possession of toys.

Makes you wonder WHY Tilikum had such significant resource guarding issues around toys and WHY he was never swam with or taught waterwork to.

But people just want to portray him as "psycho whale gone mad" and ignore the trainers who worked with him and who adored him and, by following the Tili protocols that were taught to every trainer in Shamu Stadium in Orlando, they never felt overly unsafe around him.

Yet there are still people gleefully wishing for the death of trainers who still do waterwork in Japan or hoping a trainer gets dragged in a SeaWorld. There's this vile fascination and exploitation of Dawn's death that continues to this day. And, thanks to Blackfish, Dawn and Tilikum's memory will always be forever tarnished.

YouTube has been on a roll with recommendations lately

[milknette]

chapter 03 - game night

see the thing you've been chasing, you'll never find it wearing a life vest. ​

tumblr month: @adrinetteapril​​

links: ao3 | ff.net chapter: previous | next

THE NEWS of Adrien’s apparent date with the new girl— no, that mermaid, spreads like wildfire.

(Not wildwater apparently, as Alya points out. Marinette has to scoff: how does wildfire make sense, then?)

In any case, it only takes a night and the morning after, before classes start, for the information to receive a certain group of students who are less than delighted over the news.

“Let’s just douse her with water as soon as she gets here,” someone whispers. “Can’t show up to date if she can’t even get up.”

A sudden whack on the forehead. “Ridiculous! She’ll have that guard girl of hers fixing that in a minute. Besides, she has all the time in the world to get ready after.”

“So what do you suggest, then?”

The girl smiles, a scheme already forming in her mind. “Leave it to me.”

(If it’s a game for Adrien’s heart, after all, Chloé Bourgeois and the Francois-Dupont Adrien Fanclub sure as hell aren’t losing.)

The look on Adrien’s face is nothing short of pure horror as they enter the restaurant’s interior.

Marinette is equally taken aback with the setting before her, before turning his way, offering a shrewd smile and the most dry tone-of-voice he’s ever heard. “Really? This is where you thought we’d have dinner?”

“I— uh,” he only manages to mumble, evidently panicked as they’re handed menus to browse through. Marinette flips through the pages, humming lightly to herself as she points at one of the picture. “Hey, I think he used to live at the coral reef near our place,” she starts. “Used to have dreams of travelling the world one day…,” she takes an excruciatingly-long second to take in her surroundings. “At least he got that part right.”

“I didn’t—!”

The aquariums grandly display all kinds of exotic fish and sea creatures, even reminding her of the aquadiversity back home. “The fishes are cute,” she only continues, swallowing down the amused smile that threatens to escape her as she watches her companion get increasingly more flustered. A sudden and loud chop! attracts their attention, as one of the chefs expertly cuts through one of the animal carcasses. “Desecrating the dead bodies of my family, not so much.”

“Your family?” He exhales, eyes widening at the revelation. “Marinette, you have to know that I— I never meant to—.”

“Yes,” she sighs, bowing her head down in apparent sorrow and respect. “Sebastian and Flounder… may they rest in peace.”

Adrien nods, immediately bowing down his head as well. “To Sebastian and Flou—,” he pauses, then narrows his eyes at her. “Wait.” 

At that, Marinette can’t quite stop the light laugh that escapes her lips, as his figure finally relaxes, looking at her in evident unamusement. “You know you deserved it,” she points out easily, before nodding to the waiter as they lead her to their table.

Adrien chases after her. “Okay, so you don’t mind the sushi?” He pauses, gesturing at the rows of sea animals before them, as he follows her pace. “Aren’t they your family or something?”

Marinette only rolls her eyes, before turning abruptly and pushing the menu to his chest. “Are all land mammals here related?” She points out, then grins. “Besides, what is it that you think mermaids eat?”

He opens his mouth to protest, pauses for a moment, then stops in his tracks. “You… have a point.”

(It’s only at that moment Marinette realizes the close proximity she has to her so-called date for the night, and immediately pushes back.)

“I know I do,” she only responds, a bit hastily taking a seat as they’re led to their table. “And you’re the one not making sense here. If you thought I hated sushi, then why would you bring me here?”

It’s a valid question, and Adrien’s eyebrows furrow as if even he’s not even sure of the answer.

“I’m confused myself,” he finally responds. “I was asking around for first date recommendations, and a friend suggested that I take you here. She said it was the perfect place for someone like you.” He pauses. “Well, I guess they know their mermaid lore more than I do.”

Marinette can’t quite stop the suspicion that crawls up her spine, but ushers it away. “Guess it worked perfectly, then?”

“Dolphinitely.”

(Somewhere in a far-off table, Chloé slams the menu on the table and stands to attack— blissfully unaware of the ‘CAUTION: WET’ sign upon the floor, and falling flat to the ground.

The tray of sushi soon follows, perfectly slipping over and falling atop her head. She bites back the need to scream.)

Marinette - 1, Fangirls - 0.

.

.

The attacks don’t stop throughout the night. They try to switch around the orders, mess with her meal, distract the waiters, get her wet (— There are literally aquariums everywhere. This shouldn’t be as hard as it is for them to complete.).

However, whatever they try to do, they fail spectacularly.

They’ve lost count of all the so-called activities and points that Marinette’s managed to win. They’re still at zero, even when their opponent has no idea that she’s even playing.

A formidable rival, they begrudgingly admit.

(Evidently, Marinette thinks something strange is going on. But she never has quite enough proof to make a scene for it.

.

.

It’s a Hail Mary when their dinner finishes, and the fangirls decide that there’s nothing more they can do.

Well, majority of them do.

As Adrien and Marinette walk down parking, Chloé Bourgeois sneakily runs indoors, aims, and throws a single water balloon in the air.

She shoots, she shoots, and it looks like she’s gonna make it…

Until surprisingly-quick reflexes result in the mermaid’s date immediately pushing her to hunch downwards, shielding her with his trenchcoat, and—

A human shield (or sacrifice, really— judging by the amount of water dripping off his clothes.)

The remains of the water balloon now on the floor, Adrien carefully moves from a protective stance to help Marinette up; and to the fangirls’ despair, completely ‘human’— legs and all. (They’re belatedly terrified in realizing that they just threw a balloon at their idol, and quickly scatter away as soon as they do.)

They escape, but the match is set:

Marinette wins.

(For this round, at least: as Chloé tells herself, this is nothing more than the beginning to all-out war.)

.

.

After taking a moment to collect himself, Adrien looks at the damage caused around him. Their college-mates have long since evacuated the scene, and all he’s really left with is the remains of a plain black balloon.

“What was that?” He finally asks, rubbing at his head in apparent shock. Marinette takes a handkerchief from her bag, then carefully wipes it across his face to help.

“Nothing new, at least,” she only says, rolling her eyes in evident irritation. “Didn’t expect them to follow me all the way here, though.” Marinette pauses, looking down at the bits of balloon on the floor, and slowly connects the dots for the strange events of that night.

Alya’s words (and warnings, really), from the previous day swim fresh in her mind: Ah. Fangirl club, then.

She looks at him unimpressed. “Dedicated fans you have.”

He looks absolutely clueless. “What do you mean?” Adrien asks, eyebrows knitting together. “You’re saying they stalked us here just to throw a single water balloon at you?”

“Not just the balloon,” Marinette corrects. “Everything else too. Didn’t you notice anything weird at dinner?”

“... I mean, I enjoyed it.”

“So did I,” she points out. “But something was fishy, right?”

When a flicker of recognition alights in her companion’s eyes at the pun, Marinette realizes exactly what she has to do.

She puts it in words he can understand. “All of this?” Marinette finally says, gesturing grandly with her hands. “This was no acseadent.”

Adrien looks like he’s holding on to her every word.

She pauses for dramatic effect (has no idea why, even), and stares him down. “This was… saboatage.”

He’d definitely be proud had the situation been any different. “You think my fans tried to ruin our date tonight?”

“No,” Marinette corrects again. “I know they did— tried, at least. You land mammals are so quick to act on your emotions.”

He hums thoughtfully, as the dots start to connect themselves in his head. “Ah, so this is the rebellion you didn’t want to start, huh?”

She shrugs. “I’d rather not incite the wrath of humans, thanks.”

“We are a pretty eelmotional bunch,” he agrees, before carefully taking hold of her hand through the handkerchief. “I hope tonight was worth it?”

Marinette pauses, looking from their hands to his expression. She tilts her head, as if in thought. The answer is clear to her, of course: and definitely to him, too.

“Too early to be sure,” she responds instead. “Whale see.”

(She can practically see his face glow whenever she puns.)

“And so we shell.”

[dlamp-dictator]

Allen X’s Gacha Rules for a ‘Good’ Gacha Game (Featuring Arknights)

Hey look, that Arknights essay came quicker than I thought.

Continuing on my goal of finishing up all my years-old drafts by the end of February, I think it’s pretty damn convenient that I glanced over this half-finished opinion piece just in time for the next limited banner for Arknight’s CN server to be announced. This is a topic I’ve been wanting to cover for awhile now. If there was anything that was a decent marker for Allen X’s gaming experience these past 4-ish years it was the fact that he got real into Gacha Games. I’ve dipped my toe into quite a few different Gacha phone games over the years. AFK Arena, Granblue Fantasy, Girls Frontline, and even an Ikkitousen gacha game at one point. And of course Arknights, which is my current main gacha game at the moment.  

Honestly, the only thing I didn’t play was Fate/Grand Order, and for damn good reason, but one thing at a time.

Anyway, with all that time I spent playing these games I’ve slowly given myself a ruleset and mindset for how I handle these gacha games. And I figured I’d talk about how I go about playing some of them, some of the experiences I’ve gained, and what I look into when it comes to the money portion of playing a ‘free-to-play’ game. I’ll mostly be talking about Arknights since it’s the main gacha game I’ve been playing for the past year and I don’t play two of these at once for damn good reason. 

So, with that all said, let’s start off with... 

Point 1: Methods of Ten-Pulls

For those new, the typical loop for most gacha games is to roll for rare characters and use them to complete segments of the game, whether for their looks, stats, or playstyle (but mostly looks). The characters themselves are usually drawn in an attractive and appealing way, along with having abilities and statistics that are desirable from a gameplay perspective, at least those of a higher rarity. The more you pull and buy into the gacha, the higher the chance you get for a rare character. Some games have deals where you pull can pull for free with some in-game resource like Girls Frontline, and more commonly the game encourages you to pull 10 at a time to increase your chances. 

For any good gacha game, I feel you should be able to pull for free at a fair rate. That varies a lot depending the game mechanics at play, how the game handles duplicate pulls, the rarity rate of gacha pulls, and so on, but in general if you can pull 10 times every two weeks I’ll consider the game fair, at least on that front. 

Arknights is actually a pretty good example of this. Headhunting aside, you can pull 4 times a day using in-game resources in the recruitment section of the menu, but those pulls tend to be a lot more common and not viable in the endgame like some of the ones you get in headhunting. And even without the recruitment section you can usually ten-pull about twice a month if you do the daily and weekly missions plus the weekly Annihilation missions. When I first discussed Arknights in this regard I had some confusion about how Annihilation worked and assumed it reset monthly. I apologize if I misled people with that statement. 

Anyway, by doing all the activities and missions that give you Orundum, the gacha currency, you should be able to collection about 10,000 Orundum every month, which is one guaranteed ten-pull a month. This is a little under what I would had preferred for Arknights and there’s a good chance I’m missing a free source of Orundum somewhere (and I’m rounding down to play it safe), but... it’s fair enough. 

But onto my second point.

Point 2: Premium Currency in Relation to Real-World Currency.

In short, I should have a clear idea how much it cost to pull a character if I was going to whale. Typically, in most gacha games you can purchase a premium currency in order to pull characters with real world money. The amount can vary from game to game, but there should be a clear idea of how much it cost to pull for a character. 

As a free-to-play game, most gacha games do need some kind of reliable income. Let’s be real here, this game doesn’t run on happiness and sunshine and I don’t mind giving money to products I want to see succeed and continue, but if it takes 20 bucks to ten-pull I’m going to find that ridiculous unless the gacha rate is in highly my favor.

Arknights uses Originium Prime as it’s premium currency, an item that can be transferred into 180 Orundum per unit. One Originium Prime costs one dollar. You need about 33 Originium Prime to get the 6,000 Orundum needed to pull ten times, or a little over 3 Originium Prime to pull once using 600 Orundum. This means on average it costs around $33 to pull on command.

This is absurd for a tower defense game.

Now, Originium Prime does a lot more than let you engage with the gacha, but the brass tacks of this is that for every ten-pull you do you could just as easily get 3 games off a Steam sale, maybe more. I also think I should note that Arknight’s store lets you buy 40 Originium Prime for $30 as a bundle, cutting that cost to about 75 cents per Originium Prime. There’s also an option for 66 Originium Prime for $50, but that for just a little over 75 cents per Originium Prime if my math is correct. Either way, Arknights is asking for quite the price to engage in one of its main mechanics. 

And yes, you can gain Originium Prime in game by perfect-clearing stages and clearing the challenge modes, but there’s a finite a moment of those stages and events maps are pretty scarce in Arknights, coming around once every two-ish months with about 15-20 chances for Originium Prime. As a casual player this is... fine, but for folks that rush the endgame this is... a tad much. 

Now, I’m a casual player. I don’t rush to the latest content and I don’t try and min-max a gacha game of all things. As much I mostly just buy a monthly pack that grants me about 300 Orundum for free daily for 30 days and 6 Originium Prime upon purchase. This makes the grind a little easier and it’s a cheap way to show monetary support to the development team. However, I do recognize there are people that do these min-max and rush content and my opinion of these folks aside I think those folks probably spend the most money as well, undeservedly so. But this is more a discussion of the individual person and not the gacha community as a whole.

So... moving on...

Point 3: Late Game Viability as a Free-to-Play

To me, it should never feel like you need the gacha to finish the game or get to the endgame content. For a free to play game, you should be able to at least finish the initial pre-update content without needing to try and a pull a rare character to get you through a hard segment of the game. Events and Post-Launch stuff have a bit of wiggle room, but overall I don’t think you should need a team of the rarest characters to just beat the game, at least not a meta-team. That doesn’t mean the desire to pull can’t be there, but at least for the launch-content, you should be able to finish it out as a free-to-play player. Thankfully, most games (most good games) will give you a pretty decent team to work with if you truly have bad luck with rolls. Girls Frontline is a good example of this.

Arknights... isn’t as generous as I’d like it to be.

In Arknights, by the end of Chapter 4, with limited engagement of the Gacha, you’ll have handful of 4-Stars that can be leveled to the late game with decent stats, Amiya, and an assortment of 3 stars that can technically get you through those first four chapters if used and placed wisely. But some four stars like Gavial, Courier, and Dur-nar are time-limited if I remember correctly, so as of me typing this there’s no reliable way to get some of those characters.

Meanwhile, in Girls Frontline you got most of team Anti-Rain by the mid-game pre-updates, a group of 4-star guns that had already great utility and with half of their members being in the meta of the pre-update endgame content, and are still viable to this day if I remember correctly. 

This is a major point of contention I have with Arknights. I think they’re fairer than most gacha games, but I’ll admit they don’t like giving handouts, not as many as I’d prefer anyway. Even the stingy AFK Arena gave you more stuff after maintenance updates and the like, and I hate the fact that I complimented AFK Arena on anything.

But onto my last point.

Point 4: 5-Star/SSR Rates Must be Around 4% or Higher.

This is the main reason I’ll never touch F/GO (along with other reasons). Every gacha game should, statistically, guarantee a five-star/SSR/highest-tier rarity after 30 pulls. Any more than that and you’re playing with a rigged slot machine by my standards. Like I said, the main goal of most gacha games is to get you pulling for these are fancily drawn jpegs and pngs, and while those characters technically have gameplay function and even limited animation in certain non-gameplay settings, they’re still pictures nonetheless. And if I have to dip more than 30 times to get something good then what’s the point.

Again, using Arknights, their 5-Stars are at a rather generous 8%, but their 6-Stars being at a tad crueler 2%. By all accounts, I shouldn’t be touching Arknights because of this, but due to the nature of how busted Six-Stars are and a few other details like base functions, potential levels, and some other factors in Arknights gameplay, I let this slide for the moment.

Regardless, I shouldn’t take more than 20 pulls to get a highly rated unit of some sort. The details of the specific unit can be discussed at a later date, but my point remains.

Also, any gacha game that mixes accessories and characters in the same pull pool is equally unplayable. Characters have utility and gameplay functions that can be used for multiple strategies and methods, along with out-of-game benefits ala the base mechanics of Arknights depending on the game. Accessories and items are stat buffs in game where grinding levels is already purposely tedious. Anything making that act more of a hinderance is honestly trying to rob you blind and should be avoided like the plague.

Now... one more thing to talk about. 

About Arknights Specifically

You know... between me bitching about Chapter 7, bitching about Chapter 6, bitching about 7-18, and bitching about Code of Brawl I get the feeling you all think I hate Arknights. 

Trust me, I only whine and moan because I love this game and the people who made it, I wouldn’t waste my breath or keystrokes otherwise. 

That said, I would like to see some things change about Arknights on a foundational level. I’ll try and keep this short, but no promises.

Endgame Team for Free

This is the team you have to work with for 6-7 because of story reasons and I think this team should gained for free to by the end of chapter 6, everyone in this squad should be in your rooster by the end. Even Blaze, her kit is good, but not as busted as Silverash so she wouldn’t shatter the game’s difficulty. This team overall is very well balanced for end game content and has all the essentials to get through it. E2 medics and guards, cheap vanguards and defenders for last minute placements to stall, a good sniper that can do solid burst damage, some specialists just in case you need to manipulate enemy movement and path detection. I believe you can get Rope, FEater, and Myrrh free, but Blaze and Greythroat for reliable lategame damage feels like a must. And I see nothing wrong with giving out those two for free anyway, especially for what was near endgame content at the time and how pivotal Blaze and Greythroat were to the storyline of Chapter 6. And yes I feel the same way about Rosmontis in Chapter 7 too. She’s actually a pretty niche unit and a 6-Star that’s expensive to upgrade, just having her in your pocket wouldn’t shatter the game like it would be if you gave us, again, Silverash.

Gacha Rates

I think arguing for cheaper prices with the Originium Prime is a fools errand because corporations will never listen, but I’ll at least say this. The rules of the gacha that followed the WWE Banner should be for all future banner. You should get a banner-specific currency that lets you outright buy the rare units on said banner if you have bad enough luck. You needed to pull 300 times to get W or Weedy and about 50 times to get  Elysium. I feel like both of these should be cut in half. Going by the math I previously did counting that requirement in half would mean only doing 15 ten-pulls, about 495 Originium Prime (89,100 Orundum) or a little over $370 for a limited operator.

This is still absurd for a tower defense game, but it is a far more fair than the original system.

Other Small Quality of Life Changes

A quick pull for recruitment operators so we don’t have to see the bag animation 4 times over. Girls Frontline had something similar by the time I left and it was all the better for it. 

A similar form of auto-play to Girls Frontline where you can send in one of your 4 squads to auto play a map off screen a number of times and come back later when they’re down for materials at the cost of extra sanity. 

Have a Orundum be a log-in reward. Again, something Girls Frontline did and I think coughing out 1,000 Orundum once a week wouldn’t kill anyone.

Buff Amiya goddammit. Either remove/shorten the stun on her S2 to make her have reliable (if random) magical burst damage or remove the instant retreat on her S3 so she can become a hard-hitting damage unit at the cost of a high SP cost and cooldown timer. Don’t give major drawbacks to your only non-event free 5-Star when Silverash exists. When Click and Haze has more viability than your main character you have a problem.

Anyway, that’ll be it for me. Next time... I talk about something that isn’t me bitching.

[ragingbookdragon]

Even In Different Lives, We Always Find Each Other PT. 4

A Connor Kenway x Reader Story

Word Count: 1,659 Warnings: None

Author’s Note: Woo! I wrote two parts in one day! We cool, we cool! Enjoy! -Thorne

The gentle sway of a ship wasn’t something uncommon to her; she’d spent more than a few days aboard the Aquila with Connor, not that they spent their time swaying gently. But this ship? Her father’s ship? It felt unknown because it was unknown. She resisted the urge to keep pacing around the captain’s cabin, resisting even more to snooping through his things. Even if it would give her answers, it still felt wrong. He’d left some time ago to fetch a doctor, since she’d absolutely refused to go to one, insisting she was fine. However, with each passing second, he grew more unconfident about her state, finally making a deal that if he brought her somewhere comfortable would she see a doctor. She agreed, and here she sat for the last hour. Naivety on her part wondered what was taking him so long, experience told her that he was searching for a doctor they could trust. Likely a doctor for the templars. Just as the thought crossed her mind, the doors to the cabin opened up, and in came her father, followed by a man that made her blurt out, “Benjamin Church?” The doctor smiled as he entered the cabin.

           “I’m glad to see you remember me Miss (Y/N). Even more so to see you’re alive.” She blinked, still a bit stunned, because she very much so remembered watching Connor kill him. She quickly hid it, nodding along.

           “As am I, sir.” Shay walked over to her, laying a hand on her shoulder.

           “How are you feeling?” (Y/N) offered him a satisfied nod, replying,

           “I’m feeling a little better.” Trying to make the situation lighter, she quipped, “Not everyday you escape your execution.” Though Benjamin and she laughed, Shay didn’t, a frown spreading across his features. (Y/N) cleared her throat, adding, “Anyways, Mister Church, I assume you’re here for me.” He nodded, walking over to her.

           “Master Shay said you took a nasty wound to the head that’s resulted in some state of amnesia.” She tossed a quick glare at her father, who seemed unperturbed by it, offering his own mocking look; she glanced back at Benjamin and said,

           “It’s not that serious sir.” An unconvinced expression crossed his face and he looked to Shay who muttered,

           “She thinks Haytham Kenway is a templar.” (Y/N) couldn’t fight the sigh that left her mouth and Benjamin remarked,

           “So, it’s not a case of amnesia, but one of altered memories?” She shook her head, holding up a hand, to correct,

           “No, I remember things, it’s just…it’s just-” He cut her off with a flurry of questions.

           “Who’s the current king?”

           “King George the Third is the King of England.”

           “What’s the year?”

           “Seventeen-eighty-four, one year after the revolutionary war.” Their brows furrowed at her words and he asked curiously,

           “Who won the revolutionary war?” The way he gave her the inquiry made her pause, and she opened her mouth, but nothing seemed to come out other than an unsure,

           “The…patriots?” Benjamin shared a glance to her father, before tipping his head. They turned, discussing something, but she listened carefully.

           “I’ve not seen anything like this sir. She answered the first question well, but the others…” He trailed off and her father added,

           “Distorted memories?” Benjamin nodded and (Y/N) grunted, banging her heel against the bed frame, causing them to look back at her.

           “Hey, if you’re going to talk about me like I’m crazy, at least do it where I can’t see or hear. I’d like to preserve some sense of dignity.” The doctor fumbled for words, but Shay eased,

           “(Y/N), we don’t think you’re crazy, but you’re remembering things that have not and have never happened.” She met his gaze and he knelt beside her, gently taking her hands in his. “The revolutionary war ended in seventeen-seventy-seven, and the Crown won. We saw to this.” To say she was shocked was to say the least and it obviously showed on her face because Benjamin stepped over, placing a hand on Shay’s shoulder.

           “Sir, might I suggest letting her read up on the reports to right her memories? I think telling her might only disturb her state more.”

           “You mean she needs to see it herself to believe it again.” He nodded and Shay sighed, squeezing her hands. “I understand.” The doctor smiled at her, politely stating,

           “I’ll also need to check out the wound on your head.” (Y/N) waved him off, remarking,

           “There’s no need. It’s not an open wound. It’s internal.”

           “Miss (Y/N)-” A flicker of irritation simmered inside her and she bit out,

           “I’m. Fine.” He pursed his lips, but tipped his head and Shay said,

           “Benjamin, I’ll show you out.” The two left and (Y/N) stood from the bed, hands immediately rising to grip her head, palms pressed tightly to her temples as if it would find whatever it was she was missing. As she walked to the side of the cabin, she caught sight of a few pieces of parchment nailed to the wall, prompting her to step closer and examine them. Children’s drawings, but with her signature and initials in the corner. A sad smile crossed her lips as she looked at the one in the middle, obviously a poorly drawn picture of her father and her holding hands. Footsteps sounded beside her, followed by his low voice. “You drew that when you were six.” (Y/N) didn’t look back at him, simply letting out a low hum. “It’s my favorite one next to the one you drew of me in my whaler suit.” Shay chuckled. “It’s still surprising that you’re the reason we don’t go hunting at sea anymore.” At that, she turned her head, gazing at him.

           “Beg pardon? My fault?” He nodded, a grin on his lips as he retold,

           “We’d anchored the ship one day when we saw a killer whale to hunt.” His lips pulled into a small smile. “You watched the entire time from the side of the ship, but when you realized what we were doing, you started screaming for me to stop.” (Y/N) frowned and retorted,

           “Well…they’re living animals.” Shay huffed a laugh, nodding his head.

           “Oh, believe me, I know.” He looked at her. “When we came back aboard you cried all evening and told me I couldn’t hunt sea animals anymore.” A smile of her own grew and she glanced back at the wall.

           “And it worked, I see.”

           “It did.” They fell into a silence, and she muttered,

           “I’m sorry I can’t seem to remember what’s happened.” Shay didn’t respond for a moment, then he questioned,

           “…How much do you remember?” (Y/N) felt her jaw loosen and she shrugged unsurely.

           “I…I don’t even know if what I know is what really happened.” She looked at her father, and for a moment, he seemed so alien to her. “I know things. I know about life and all it’s ups and downs, I know all my training and skills, I know about the templars and assassins, but…” A haunted look came across her and she whispered, “But I don’t remember this,” she gestured to the wall of drawings before looking at him sadly. “And I don’t remember you.” (Y/N) could tell the words did more than hurt him, but she figured honesty was needed in a situation like this. “I’m sorry if that hurts you…dad…but…it’s the truth.” He was quiet for a minute, then he took a step towards her gently placing his hands on her shoulders, turning her to look at him. When she did, he murmured earnestly,

           “Then we’ll help you remember.” She tried to smile, but the more she tried, the more a grimace formed, and Shay squeezed her shoulders, adding, “But you need to get some rest.” He pulled away, nodding to the bed. “I still have things to take care of. You can rest here if you’d like.” (Y/N) shook her head, asking,

           “Is it okay if I go for a walk? I think I need some fresh air.” His features turned hesitant and he advised,

           “I’m not too keen on you going out after what just happened.”

           “Why?”

           “Well, you almost died. We’ve received reports that Achilles has multiple assassins hunting you down. You’re a walking targ-” (Y/N) narrowed her eyes, challenging,

           “I can take care of myself.” Shay fixed her with a hard stare, countering,

           “I know you can. Be that as it may, I don’t want you leaving the pier unless I tell you to.” She sighed, wanting to argue, but she couldn’t deny that his words had some ground. She might be in Boston, but this Boston wasn’t hers, wasn’t what she was used to. If she wanted to get out and back to Connor, she’d need to brush up on who the templars and assassins were in this world, and who could help her get out. (Y/N) waved a hand sending him off.

           “Point taken.” Shay gave a satisfied nod and she asked, “Benjamin mentioned reports I could read over.” He pointed to a shelf and she glanced at it.

           “Those are all the reports we’ve filed in the past few years.” He waved a finger. “Blue spines are high profile reports on assassins, red spines are informants and members of the templars. You might want to look those over.” (Y/N) nodded and looked back at him.

           “Got it.” Shay smiled at her, reaching up to rest a hand on her head, lightly, he patted her.

           “You’ll be okay (Y/N). Just take some time to rest.” Returning his smile with a less than cheerful one he hugged her before pulling away, heading for the doors. “I’ll be back in a few hours. Remember,” he warned. “Don’t leave the pier.” Sarcasm rolled over her tongue, but she locked it, replying,

           “Yes sir.” When the door shut, she turned to the books and muttered, “Alright, which one of you will tell me how to get out of Boston.”

[dragonrajafanfiction]

Dragon Dancer III: The Meeting

Many shifts I envied Nono.

Her clientele was out in the open, loud, brash and fun. They were the dance on the table types who weren’t afraid to shout their vulgar intentions. And she ate it up because that was what was allowing us to stay in the Takamagahara. 

We were supposed to be hiding out and keeping a low profile, staying out of the light and there wasn’t a place in Tokyo shadier than this. But I was finding myself in deeper and deeper shadows.

I stuck to the backrooms, serving tea to the rich and famous who had reason not to state their preferences outloud. Johann, my actual lover, stayed close by, one eye on them.

Nono got the money and the tourists. I got the regulars.

After the time spent with Chisei, it felt like rolling from one existential threat to another, only now I had to pretend I wasn’t terrified every time they looked at me like I was one of the steaks on their plates. At least my ornamental fan and layers of silk  provided enough barrier between them and me that I could safely avoid their touch. But it was their eyes that made me feel dirty. I wasn’t sure how much more of this I could stand now that there seemed to be a light at the end of this tunnel.

At the end of the night, one of them left an unfavorable review, complaining to the manager that I was too standoffish. “The Whale” was apologetic saying that I had been a little under the weather recently and that my have caused my shyness.

The client in return refused to pay.

Whale approached looking aggrieved while I fanned myself, refusing to meet his eyes.

“ Tamayori - hime, please, I understand your position but I am losing money here!”

“Are you serving clients or criminals? I’m not putting myself in a position to get taken advantage of. Tamayori means look not touch! They know that going in!” I walk away, tucking myself under Johann’s arm for comfort. “I want out of here.”

“Hydra controls this entire area. You’d be apprehended before you crossed the street.”

Lu Mingfei was collecting the dirty dishes on a rolling cart. He leaned over it, exhausted. The work was a good distraction for him. He was happy that my operation on Erii was a success, but he missed her and the presence of Nono stoked his overwhelming guilt after he learned about Caesar’s vegetative state.

Fortunately, none of the Taka’s clients showed much interest in a sad, tired waiter.

The light of the dawn was already coming through the entry doors and silhouetted against it was a disheveled, rough looking person who immediately collapsed as soon as the sliding glass doors opened.

“Is this... Takamagahara?” He gasped.

Johann ran to him and picked him up off the floor. His eyes widened. “Fingel?”

“Oh... it’s you! It’s really you! I thought I’d never see you again!”

I wrinkled my nose. He smelled. Johann was trying to peel him off but the man was crying like he’d just touched land after being lost at sea.

“Fingel!” Mingfei stopped what he was doing and hurried to help him up and get him to sit at the bar.

“This is the worst internship I’ve ever had! I got chased out by the Japan branch, I couldn’t contact Cassell. I even had to eat out of the garbage and sleep on the street like a homeless person!”

I cringed. “I had no idea you were here!”

“Carli? W...why are you dressed like that?” He squinted at me. “N...never mind. Please, can you buy me some food? I haven’t eaten at all!”

I glanced at the bartender. “Can you get us something please? Anything is fine!”

The waiter turned and began making a breakfast of eggs with mushrooms, noodles and hot cocoa. In less than ten minutes, breakfast was served to all of us, but Fingel ate so quickly he turned to Johann’s plate and started eating his as well.

“How did you know we were here?” Nono walked to the bar. Mingfei moved over to make room for her, still being timid in her presence.

Once his hunger was slightly sated, he took another look at me, eyeing me the same way as my previous client. “Wow, that is one sexy number. Uh... you guys work here?” He turned to Mingfei. “And WHERE have you been! You were reported missing in action for months!”

“This is part of the mission.” Johann glared at him. “Keep your voice down.”

“I’m here on assignment too! The Principal knew they would betray Cassell! We’ve been infiltrating the Japan branch for years and I’m one of the spies! Haha...” He chuckled nervously.

Johann looked relieved. “So the Principal anticipated our situation.”

Mingfei deadpanned. “You’re the worst spy. I was with Hydra for months and you had no idea where I was.”

“You were with HYDRA? How’d you get in?!”

Mingfei ignored the question.

“Come ooooon... teach me your secret!” He fell over the counter. “What is this mission? How can I get in on it?” He took a bite and was suddenly distracted. “These eggs are really good.”

“We’re here because the White King is hatching and its moving and we have to kill it before it wakes up and destroys Tokyo like a big ol’ Godzilla...” I answered. “...and that’s not even to mention all the other zany happenings going on in the Japanese criminal underworld. We can’t contact Cassell. We’re trying to negotiate enough of a truce for the Japan branch to drop their blockade but until we get rid of a rival gang leader, they won’t budge.”

“Ooo...” Fingel was suddenly interested. “You’re working with the Japanese Mafia!”

Nono, pushing her way between us, interrupted. “How did you find us!”

“Oh... uh... some guy with a girly name showed me your picture and address. Some chick named...” He laughed. “Ruri Kazama.”

Another plate of eggs and noodles was placed in front of Fingel. “It’s not polite to so casually criticize someone’s stage name.”

The bartender’s demeanor suddenly changed. He removed his hat, letting his hair fall to his shoulders. Fingel paled and leaned away. “Hey! It’s you!”

Nono laughed and clapped her hands. “Lonely, again?”

Ruri turned to meet her eyes. “I’m always lonely.”

I smiled at him. “I had a long talk with Chisei tonight. Erii is doing well. I think he’s caught on to you, Ruri... or should I say, Chime Gen.”

Johann’s head lifted, and his eyes briefly flashed in the dim light at the bar. 

“That’s correct. Chime Gen is my real name, second son of the Gen clan and brother of Chisei.”

“I’m... just... going to keep eating...” Fingel whimpered.

“Do you want any soy sauce?” Chime asked kindly.

“And some garlic chips?” Fingel meekly responded.

“He has caught on to me. This place is my last refuge now.” He retrieved Fingel’s condiments.

“The King is moving to further his plans. Three hours ago, he contacted Tachibana.”

We all leaned in to listen carefully in a huddle. Kazama placed a small recording device on the bar top.

“Dear Major Bondarev, this is a call from the Arctic Circle, from a man dead 21 years.... Please, let me hear your voice again. Let’s reminisce about the old times with the Soviets.”

“Dr. Herzog, it’s you. So you’re not dead after all...”

Underneath the bar, Johann took my hand.

“Hahaha... please, call me the General. And I will call you Tachibana. The Soviet Union is no more and we have to be accustomed to our new identities.”

[annakie]

An Annotated Mass Effect Playthrough, Part Ten

Let’s... get as close to home as we’re gonna for a long time.

List of Posts: 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9

And we’re off!  Back to the elevator.

Time to help that sweet Nassana lady’s kidnapped sister.

Am I wrong in thinking even the “ugly” planets are generally still pretty?

After reliving that fight from update eight, it’s time to find Nassana’s sis...

WHAT?  A slaver all along?  I’m SHOCKED.  SHOCKED! 

So with heavy hearts, Kaidan, Wrex and I slogged back to the Normandy, eager to do good in the universe, to save others, serve the rules-following Alliance and do no harm to those whom I will come to care about deeply in the future. 

Oh, hey Hackett!  What?  There’s a base under seige on the Earth’s Moon, and you need me to handle it?  Definitely just a VI going haywire?  Good to know the Alliance wouldn’t do any illegal AI development.  I’ll take care of this pesky VI who is definitely not gaining sentience nor whom will I ever interact with again, no problem!

Time to head to the Sol System!

The only thing on G’loot Praktaw Mars is a few small prothean ruins archeology teams?  Boring! Why would anyone ever go there?  

Shoutout to Jupiter!! (This update contains jokes for like three very specific people.  You know who you are.)

(Boop!)

You guys hear about Pluto?  That’s messed up, right?

BTW... ALOT replaces our local planets with updated textures from real NASA pics that have come out since 2007.  Love it.

11.4 billion people on Earth.  Rent must be crazy.

Luna... nice to not just call it “The Moon”. Think we can go barefoot?

I probably should have giffed THIS landing sequence but oh well.

I’m pretty sure there’s a rule that says if you’re screenshotting your ME1 playthrough you have to take a picture of the Mako + Earth on the moon.  Whew, checked THAT box off.

Since this mission is all sensitive Alliance stuff, Ashley and Kaidan come with.

Is this the future site of the Punishment Soccer field?

We're whalers on the Moon, we carry a harpoon. But there ain't no whales so we tell tall tales and sing a whaling tune!

So we ran in there, easily took out one set of rockets, then had to... somewhat tediously shoot eight power couplings.  

Well that’s slightly annoying, weird way to protect the power couplings but whateves, Alliance techs.

One down, two to go.  

Two down and... what?  Oh because just what this mission needed was more tedious shooting.

I really wanna know how these things are supposed to work.  At least the textures and lights look good.

Really?  Before the doors, too!?

EVERY DOOR!?

Anyway.  Remember how I said there were one or two fights when I did the game on Insanity made me want to ragequit and I had to do them many, many times?

This is one of them.  The 3rd base on the moon.  Bane of my existence.

Oh well hey this isn’t so bad, just get that barrier up and...

I ALMOST HAD HIM DAMNIT

The near-complete lack of cover as soon as you run into that room combined with them very easily getting to flank you and shoot rockets at you close up is nothing but a deathtrap.

Hey, Shepard, how about uh... taking some cover and using some tactics?

Ash, Kaidan, let's go back out to the big room we just came through instead.  You... stand there.

See?  Isn’t this much better?  You throw everything you’ve got at them, I’ll mash buttons from behind cover.

 Easy Peasy.  Fish in a barrel.

Ahhh damnit, so close, Kaidan.

Pretty sure he took out the rocket trooper right as the rocket trooper took him out.

Welp, that’s what Unity is for. 

FINALLY, last VI Conduit.

Let me just take out this conduit and...

Hey, too bad I can’t read binary.  I’m sure that’s nothing important, anyway, and I won’t ever feel guilty about this decision.  It’s just a VI, not a friend!

Specialization time!!

Eh, let’s go Nemesis this time.  Stronger Biotics are pretty great.

And it’s time to leave the moon and never consider our actions nor the Alliances motives again!

New day, new Ice Planet.

Oh, a wide-open plain huh?  I know this game!  Thresher Maw Incom... no?

What happened here?  Will we ever know?

Reminder this location on Chohe has three Matriarch writings.  So it was probably Asari that lived here, but where did they go?

Oh, okok... here we go, a map objective, THRESHER MAW TI.... still no?

Guys, I think it’s safe.  No Thresher Maw here!

...damnit.

Whew, I think we outran i...

FUCK.

LITTLE DID YOU KNOW I WANTED TO DO A 180 ANYWAY, THANKS MR. MAW.

Just a few more shots and... no don’t worry about how nearly the entire mako status window is flashing red.  We’re FINE.

Whew.  Time to slap some medigel on that, boys.

Now, for the reason we came here.

Technically, I shouldn’t have this quest yet, since it’s the high-paragon exclusive mission, but well, I’m here now, so why not.

Trying hard NOT to kill civilians is always a bit iffy.

I... only had to reload once, and I’m pretty sure that the one civvy that was killed wasn’t my fault the first time, though.

Also, this place has some pretty great loot once you’re done.

Sadly, this mission is bugged, and imports will always think that this mission ended in a bloodbath.  

From the wiki:  Due to a bug, when creating the correct flags for the Mass Effect save, the file is flagged as stating that the Sirta Foundation never recovered from the attack and will likely be shutting down regardless of decisions.This bug is not fixable by editing the save file.

As far as I can tell, ME1Re doesn’t fix this.  Luckily, it doesn’t have much of a bearing on the future.

--

Okay, a shorter update, but now I need to play some more to have more to post.  Next time... maybe we’ll get to Feros? 

[nicksilveirart]

(SING!) Story Not Told, chapter 7 – Set It All Free while I do it My Way

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Click to read chapter 7:

Okay, she had promised him she’d write a punk song for the following day. Okay, he was a tad bit too enthusiastic about her voice. Okay, it felt good to be appreciated. But Ash was regretting her promise as she laid down at the couch in her house. What was she thinking? A song, written in one day? Lance took months to write his’! They weren’t masterpieces? Correct. But they weren’t trash. She was tired, and had thought of at least 10 different melodies, but all of them sounded wrong. Guitar on hand, she tried playing a punk version of Freedom is a voice, only to find out the cheesy lyrics sounded like a war cry when turned punk. “Half tone lower?” No avail. She wrapped her jacket around her waist, and grabbed her guitar case and a notepad. “Maybe changing the environment a little.” She locked the door, and took a bus to the other side of town. She walked through parks and stores at the sidewalk, to find a nice place for writing under a tree. She played a few melodies she had in mind. Those who went past her either smiled or frowned, but she couldn’t care less. “You put me through a rollercoast-“ “Ash!” She nearly jumped at the sound. She knew that voice. She missed that voice. “Adam?!” A smaller, and younger looking porcupine jumped at her. “Adam! What are you doing out here?” “Candy!” He said, as he shoved some goodies into his mouth. “Want some?” Ash shook her head. “I missed you, where have you been?” Ash was distressed, looking from left to right nonstop. “Are mom and dad with you?” “No, but I am.” Ash jumped at the voice, who chuckled. “You’re welcome. Your folks asked me to take him home.” “Tara!” Ash said, hugging the otter close. “It’s been forever!” “Tell me about it! Just because you ran away from home, doesn’t mean you had to run away from your friends too.” “Ah, shush.” The other girl laughed. Ash kneeled down to her brother’s height, and hugged him close. “My, you’ve grown!” He giggled, and held two fingers high. “Two inches.” “And he’s been telling everyone about it, too.” Tara finished. “I’m a big boy, people should know!” Both teens laughed, as Tara took a seat near Ash. “You got the time?” “Relax, wouldn’t have brought him over if we couldn’t spend some time.” Ash sighed out in relief, falling backwards in the grass. “Good.” “A composer now, hm?” She said, chuckling lightly. “Trying. I got into a singing competition, the judge wants me to write a song.” She laid her guitar down as her brother cuddled close to her. “Is it the competition I saw on the news, that’ll pay-?” “$100 grand? That’s the one.” “Starting a career with an original? Now that’s something!” She laughed. “I don’t know if I’m going to win, Tara.” Tara merely shrugged. “I think you will.” “Why? I never wrote a punk song before.” “Well… The judge asked you to do it.” She winked. Ash raised her brow. “He did that to make me feel better.” “Why’d he do that?” “Because he’s a sweetheart.” “Ohh, you using your magic on him uh?” She nudged her friend. “I'm not!” Ash sighed. “I broke up with Lance.” “Who?” Tara said, scratching her head. “Long story. We’ve been dating for almost two years, the other day I caught him cheating, we broke up, that’s it. I went to Mr- Buster, because I had no one else to turn to, he said Lance was a jerk, was holding me back, and I was better off without him, said he had been cheated upon and knew what it was like, some of the contestants also said he wasn’t worth my time.” She swallowed hard. “So I decided to listen to their advice, and didn’t take Lance back when he offered. He called me while I was with Buster, and I got upset over the things he said, so he said he wanted me to write a song.” “You’ve been using your ma-gic!” Tara singsonged. “Anyways, he gave you a chance to show your originals right? That’s great!” “It would be if I had an original that was upbeat.” “Sing the one you have!” “He said he wanted something new! With beat, and loudness, ‘perfect soundtrack for a heartbreak’, his words!” “Listen sister… You remember I consider you my sister, right?” Ash nodded. Tara then turned to grab the guitar, and played some chords. “Good. Now... It might seem crazy what I’m about to sa-ay…” “Oh my god Tara, don’t go there!” She cracked up laughing, soon being joined by her friend. “You didn’t even let me finish!” She said, pretending annoyance. “But listen. Okay, he was trying to make you feel better. But you think he’d risk the reputation of his theatre to put you up? That place hasn’t had a show worth watching in years! My mom used to take me there when I was a kid, and oh my god, the plays were terrible! The one event held there that I liked was one from Moon himself, it was called ‘Improv Comedy’, something like that. It was a monologue about family, the theatre was already discredited by everyone. It was a great show, and it was presented to ten people! Ten people Ash! That’s how low the place went… But I started going regularly to the shows, and I’m saying, he is a great screenwriter. I would know. He wouldn’t risk one of his competitors putting up a bad song just to make you feel appreciated. You know what I think? I think he may be seeing something there that you haven’t seen yet.” Ash opened a soda can. “You think he wants me to write a script for a play?” “No, I think he considers you a good songwriter.” “Tara, the one original I have sucks!” “Not to him, he wants you to write more!” She turned to her friend. “Listen… You played your original to him, right? He likes it. AND he writes like Orson Whales! He’s a good writer! If a good writer asks you to write something, I think he likes your writing skills.” Ash froze in thought. “Same thing, I’m a movie director, right? And this one time, no previous warning, Steven Seagull dropped by to watch the recording. And after we wrapped up, he looked at me and said he couldn’t wait to see my movies.” She grabbed her friend’s shoulders. “Steven Seagull! He’s like the top of top directors of all times, and he liked my directing skills! That’s like… Uh… That’s like… Quick, rocker name!” “What?” “Tell me the name of a rocker!” “Uh… Steven Tiger!” “Steven Tiger! That was Steven Tiger walking up to you and says ‘Ash, I like your songs, and I want you to compose more.’” She crashed both her hands down her friend’s shoulders. “BOOM! THAT JUST HAPPENED!” “Ow! Stop it, people are staring!” “Let them stare! Eyes were made to see!” She said, gradually speaking louder. She turned to the park’s goers. “Hey! Take a picture, it last longer!” “Stop it!” Ash practically jumped on the otter. “You’re putting up a scene!” “Ash! A good screenwriter asked you to write a song! He saw something there!” “He’s not a songwriter!” “Writer nonetheless! Maybe he never wrote a song, but he knows good writing when he sees it! Since when do you think so low of your own skills?! The Ash I knew believed she could do anything at all because she always had what it took! You can't write a song? A mere song? What happened to you?! Someone believes in you. I believe in you. While you look at your work and say it is terrible because it isn't perfect, you're not gonna go anywhere! Perfection doesn't exist, Ash. The one thing between you and your song is your head. It is holding you back! Set it free from its cuffs, and write the goddamn song!” Ash was frozen in place. Tara handed her the guitar, smiling. “So, let’s?” She took it.

Buster had no idea where the show house was, and his phone’s GPS system was even more lost than him. He could swear he had heard the mechanical voice sigh once or twice, but he carried on. He was going to find Lance, and he was going to have a word with him. Coming to a halt, he sighed in relief as he saw a Hawaiian-styled joint at the alley. The place looked shady, but calm. Was he going in there? Yes, yes he was. Going right past the entrance, he found the backstage door, where he was greeted by a familiar female koala. “Entrance is over there, sire.” “Laura?” “That's me, do we know each other? What’s your name?” “Buster. Buster Moon.” She froze in place. “May I come in? My godson is presenting tonight and I want to wish him good luck.” “Buster, I’m…” “I don’t care. May I come in?” She opened the door. “See you around, Laura.” If Buster wasn’t already too mad for his liking, now he was pissed off. His cheating girlfriend just had to work here. He couldn’t get Ash out of his mind. He was mad at Lance for cheating on her, and he was mad at himself for believing Laura’d change. He went to the wings, and talked to a dorky beaver. “Hey there! You happen to know where I can find Lance? He’s a porcupine, guitarist…” The beaver pointed to a separate room. “Thanks. You rock!” Buster ran to said room, halting at its entrance. He heard muffled singing from inside. Damn, his voice makes me want to kick his ass. He took a deep breath, and opened the door. “Hey what do ya want, we’re rehea- Buster Moon, my champ!” He gave him a yellow smile. “Man, I knew you’d come here for advice, but I didn’t expect it’d be this soon.” “Can you please pretend you’re civilized for a second, Lance? Thank you. I want you to stop harassing Ash.” “Harassing?” He shrugged. “What are you talking about there, Moon?” “The call you made her earlier today is what.” “Aww, can’t a fuzzy wuzzy teddy bear put up with another guy calling his girlfriend ‘babes’?” He laughed. “I can’t believe Ash asked you to come here!” Buster’s blood was boiling inside his veins. “For one, if you make fun of me I am going to fix your buck teeth with my hands. For two, Ash doesn’t like you calling her ‘babes’, or even calling her, for all matters. For three, she didn’t ask a thing, I’m here on my own. And for the billionth time, she is not my girlfriend.” The female porcupine laughed at his face. Lance merely chuckled, as he took her hand and kissed it. “Yeah right, I believe you. You confront her boyfriend over the things he says, you threaten him, by the way, you being in no condition to back up your threat…” That’s what you think, smart ass. “You came all the way over here, to tell me to stop calling her?” He laughed in disbelief, as he fixed Buster’s suit slightly. “Partner, you are the definition of a jealous boyfriend.” Buster grabbed both his hands, and pushed him into a couch. The female stopped laughing. Buster went right past her, standing tall over Lance. “One, you are her ex. Two, this is your last warning. If you go near Ash again for anything that’s not apologizing, I’m going to make you regret coming out of the uterus. You got that?” “Whoa!” He sat straight, facing the koala. “Didn’t knew you liked playing tough, Moon.” “I don’t like it, I found it necessary. One last time. Do you understand it?” Lance nodded. Buster started walking to the door. “She has the hots for older guys, you know.” Buster froze in his tracks. Lance stood up, and started walking to him. “Me?” He chuckled. “I’m 24, Buster. 22 when we started dating. Wow, twenty-two when I first saw that form…” Suck it up, Buster commanded himself. “Sleeping cuddling close to her, after a good night of sex… She was fresh off the oven those days, too. So pure and innocent… An escapee looking for someone who loved her, and made her feel older. Lucky me. You know how virgin girls are…” Lance put both his hands at Buster’s shoulders, gently patting them. This is his game, Buster thought. “If she hasn’t hit on you by now, don’t worry, because she will soon.” He hugged the koala, and patted his back. “You might as well enjoy, like she does.” He finished, walking back. Father, forgive. Turning around, he sent his fist crashing down the porcupine’s face, earning a startled scream from the female. Not satisfied with sending the younger male tumbling to the ground, Buster proceeded to kick him. “You piece of a-! Look at me, look at my face!” He picked the rocker off of the ground, and threw him at a chair. There was blood on his shirt. “You are a poor excuse to an animal! You mark my words, Lance, next time I hear you talk about a girl like that, or if I find out you are out there playing girls, I am going to come back. You don’t want me to come back!” That’s it. He had vented out. Shoving Lance to the ground once again, he went for the door as the female porcupine went to her boyfriend’s aid. “Oh. And have a nice debut, Lance. Ma’am.” Bowing his head, he shut the door behind him.

[sheepbutthead]

Do them all?

Hey thank you, Anon.

65 Questions You Aren’t Used To

1. Do you ever doubt the existence of others than you?

All the time. I’ve been grappling with the thought that this is just a big simulation and I’m just a brain floating in a jar.

2. On a scale of 1-5, how afraid of the dark are you?

I’m actually fine with the dark. Sometimes my anxiety gets the best of me though. So like a 2? 3?

3. The person you would never want to meet?

Everyone’s favorite walking, talking orange: Donald Trump.

4. What is your favorite word?

That’s tough, there are a lot of good words. Salubrious is good. Gentle is good. Cro-magnon makes me think of crunchy cereal.

5. If you were a type of tree, what would you be?

The Charlie Brown Christmas tree.

6. When you looked in the mirror this morning what was the first thing you thought?

“Dear god what a fucking fuck.” and “There’s cat hair all over my sweater and it’s killing me.”

7. What shirt are you wearing?

I’m wearing one of my favorite sweaters. It’s burgundy and has a stitched squares pattern.

8. What do you label yourself as?

Jewish (barely), white dude, awkward, sensitive in the worst way someone could be sensitive, somehow still apathetic to the point of concern, (very) amateur musician. 

9. Bright room or dark room?

It depends on what I’m doing. If I’m working or eating I like a bright room. But typically I like soft yellow light or just natural window light.

10. What were you doing at midnight last night?

Forcing myself to sleep so I wouldn’t overthink anymore.

11. Favorite age you’ve been so far?

Probably 5. Being 19 feels weird.

12. Who told you they loved you last?

My mom. I just took her to the doctor for a evaluation type thing.

13. Your worst enemy?

Tangling things. Like blankets, string, messy rooms, jackets, drama, emotions. Also needles.

14. What is your current desktop picture?

A very old picture of the square in Jacksonville.

15. Do you like someone?

Yes, I’d say so.

16. The last song you listened to?

Whale by Yellow Ostrich. I’ve been getting into them lately.

17. You can press a button that will make any one person explode. Who would you blow up?

I don’t know, I’m generally against killing people. I’d hate to be responsible for anyone’s death. Unless maybe it was someone who did horrible horrible things to people. Like a serial killer or a Hitler situation.

18. Who would you really like to just punch in the face?

Now THIS I’m kinda ok with. I’m still usually not cool with violence but I’m also human. Probably Trump if I wouldn’t go to jail for the rest of my life. So maybe just one of or both of the Paul brothers.

19. If anyone could be your slave for a day, who would it be and what would they have to do?

I’m not sure of the moral implications for this one either. I guess maybe Gordon Ramsay so he can teach me how to cook or just cook for me all day. I’d be happy with one of the Chris actors from the Marvel movies because they all seem like fun, cool people and they’re also very hot. I guess we’d just hang out all day and do stuff. I would stare a lot.

20. What is your best physical attribute? (showing said attribute is optional)

I don’t know. I’ve been told my eyes are nice. Maybe my ears?

21. If you were the opposite sex for one day, what would you look like and what would you do?

I think I would be a pretty hot girl actually. Of course I would take that genitalia for a spin. I can’t really think of much else to do as a girl that I couldn’t technically just do as a guy. Maybe experience a period?

22. Do you have a secret talent? If yes, what is it?

I play trumpet, I guess. That’s not much of a secret. Or a talent. I can drive stick. I can whistle pretty well. I’m good at not only destroying property but also relationships.

23. What is one unique thing you’re afraid of?

Rabbits. I hate them. Yet I dated someone who loved them. Electricity makes me nervous.

24. You can only have one kind of sandwich. Every sandwich ingredient known to humankind is at your disposal.

Fuck dude, I don’t know. That’s a lot of different combinations. I’ve been enjoying egg sandwiches lately.

25. You just found $100! How are you going to spend it?

I’d probably put it into my bike for repairs and stuff. Anything left over would just be saved for gas.

26. You just got a free plane ticket to anywhere in the world, but you have to leave immediately. Where are you going to go?

I’d love to go to Santorini but definitely not how I’m dressed now. Iceland would be cool to go to. Also Quebec for the Winter Festival.

27. An angel appears out of Heaven and offers you a lifetime supply of the alcoholic beverage of your choice. “Be brand-specific” it says. Man! What are you gonna say about that? Even if you don’t drink booze there’s something you can figure out… so what’s it gonna be?

I haven’t had enough alcoholic drinks to really make a good decision here. I will, however, take a lifetime supply of Buffalo Rock Ginger Ale. 

28. You discover a beautiful island upon which you may build your own society. You make the rules. What is the first rule you put into place?

Jesus, imagine the pressure and responsibility. We settle our arguments with whoever can rip the phattest vape cloud. Or maybe just rock, paper, scissors. No need for a fair and educated trial when you can just leave everything to chance and get fucked by fate. But seriously, probably like a vow of honesty. Everyone’s super honest to the point of destroying relationships but we all at least have our shit out there. And we all understand and don’t judge. Pretty much a giant safe space for my bitch ass.

29. What is your favorite expletive?

Fuck nugget, fucking fuck, or motherfucker. Basically just fuck. Or panty waste.

30. Your house is on fire, holy shit! You have just enough time to run in there and grab ONE inanimate object. Don’t worry, your loved ones and pets have already made it out safely. So what’s the one thing you’re going to save from that blazing inferno?

I hate this scenario and I think about it all the time. I still don’t know what I would grab. I think maybe my homecoming crown, diploma, or maybe my keyboard. I don’t know. I could list so many things that I would also choose. I hate this question.

31. You can erase any horrible experience from your past. What will it be?

Easy, cheating on someone. Fucking stupidest, most hurtful, self centered, damaging thing I’ve ever done. I’ll regret it until I’m dead and I can never make up for it.

32. You got kicked out of the country for being a time-traveling heathen who sleeps with celebrities and has super-powers. But check out this cool shit… you can move to anywhere else in the world!

What a life I live. I’m cool with Canada, Iceland, or maybe Denmark.

33. The Celestial Gates Of Beyond have opened, much to your surprise because you didn’t think such a thing existed. Death appears. As it turns out, Death is actually a pretty cool entity, and happens to be in a fantastic mood. Death offers to return the friend/family-member/person/etc. of your choice to the living world. Who will you bring back?

My sister.

34. What was your last dream about?

Trying to talk to someone I used to know and being having a developing “hates me then doesn’t” buddy buddy relationship with their dad?

35. Are you a good….[insert anything you’d like here]?

I am a good space heater. That’s about it.

36. Have you ever been admitted to the hospital?

When I was little I had to go to the hospital because of dehydration. One of the doctors thought my appendix was about to burst and they almost sent me in for surgery before another doctor came in and corrected them. Mom was pissed.

37. Have you ever built a snowman?

Oh yeah, several times. Although we don’t get many opportunities in the south.

38. What is the color of your socks?

Red and black.

39. What type of music do you like?

All kinds. I think my main genre is either some sort of electronic music or alternative rock and similar variations.

40. Do you prefer sunrises or sunsets?

sunsets definitely. Because when it’s done you can watch the stars.

41. What is your favorite milkshake flavor?

I’m a fan of whatever has the most chocolate. I like peanut butter ones too.

42. What football team do you support? (I will answer in terms of American football as well as soccer)

I don’t care about sports that much, friend.

43. Do you have any scars?

I have one on my finger that I don’t know where it came from, one on my nose (that I also do not know the origin), another one on the same finger because I was young and held the knife the wrong way so that it closed on my finger, and a lot of self inflicted stuff.

44. What do you want to be when you graduate?

I have graduated and I’m not entirely sure. I used to know. Some kind of creative. It’d be cool to work in the movies. Maybe a concept artist or something like that.

45. If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be?

Maybe my personality. Just generally not such a fuck. I wish I was more driven. 

46. Are you reliable?

I think I am 75% reliable. Maybe 85%.

47. If you could ask your future self one question, what would it be?

Do I end up like Dad? 

48. Do you hold grudges?

I can hold them for a little bit but I usually drop it or find a way that made it my fault.

49. If you could breed two animals together to defy the laws of nature, what new animal would you create?

A horse and a some kind of dinosaur. So we could ride big lizards that like apples and sugar cubes. Or maybe a dog and an elephant so we could have really big dogs with really big ears.

50. What is the most unusual conversation you’ve ever had?

I’ve had a lot. I had a conversation on using the wendigo that lives near my house as a last resort for affection.

51. Are you a good liar?

I’m pretty good. Not great. But I can lie kind of ok. Maybe I’m not that great a liar.

52. How long could you go without talking?

Probably a week.

53. What has been you worst haircut/style?

My old bowl haircut from when I was young or when I had really long hair. The long hair wasn’t that bad really. I just didn’t take care of it.

54. Have you ever baked your own cake?

Yes, several times.

55. Can you do any accents other than your own?

I can do the typical crappy English accent and maybe Scottish.

56. What do you like on your toast?

Usually just butter.

57. What is the last thing you drew a picture of?

God knows. Probably a willy.

58. What would be you dream car?

I actually use to drive my dream car. I love old Volkswagen Beetles. I’d love to put an electric engine in it like that one company does. I think they’re called Zelectrics.

59. Do you sing in the shower? Or do anything unusual in the shower? Explain.

I sing occasionally. Only when no ones around. I don’t do much else besides maybe style my hair with the shampoo.

60. Do you believe in aliens?

Yes, definitely. I think it’d be against logic to believe otherwise.

61. Do you often read your horoscope?

More than I’d like to admit. I don’t really believe it; it’s more of a casual thing. But also, I can’t help but be pulled into it.

62. What is your favorite letter of the alphabet?

J, K, W, G, Y, and maybe Q.

63. Which is cooler: dinosaurs or dragons?

I’m tempted to say dragons because they’re basically like flying dinosaurs with fire breath and cool lore. But on the other hand, dinosaurs ACTUALLY existed and that’s amazing in and of itself.

64. What do you think about babies?

I think they’re cute and they smell weird. Never hand me your baby, I will be very nervous. They’re also loud and you don’t know if they’ll turn out to be good people no matter how hard you try. They’re also amazing and they blow my mind. I do not want one. Probably ever.

65. Freebie! Ask anything interesting you can think of.

Welp.

[cstesttaken]

Cool It: You Don’t Have to Be on Every Social Media App

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Author: Jon Mooallem. Culture

03.14.17

11:30 am

CHRISTOPH NIEMANN

Do I have to try every social media app?

You’ve Got Mail starred Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan and was an awful movie. I watched it in a hotel room recently and found myself thinking about you—thinking about all of us, really. To summarize: It is 1998. Hanks is the cocky, hard-charging scion of a massive Barnes & Noble-ish bookstore chain, about to open a new location on the Upper West Side. Ryan, meanwhile—vulnerable, sappy, like a human kitten—owns a tiny children’s bookstore nearby called the Shop Around the Corner. Ryan’s shop is everything that Hanks’ is not: quaint, neighborly, beloved. And, of course, it stands to be crushed by this encroaching tentacle of Hanks’ Machiavellian empire.

There’s a lot of anxiety in the air. Thematically, the film is concerned with what modernity (symbolized by Hanks and maybe also his high-octane girlfriend, who literally shouts, “Hurry, hurry, hurry!” at her espresso machine) might be doing to our souls (symbolized by Ryan and her boyfriend, who is referred to at a party as the “greatest living expert on Julius and Ethel Rosenberg”). This anxiety is everywhere. It’s a shame kids don’t know what handkerchiefs are, someone says. When office workers play solitaire on their computers, it’s lamented as “the end of Western civilization.”

It’s all so heavy-handed. But here’s the thing: As the bitter Hanks-Ryan bookstore rivalry escalates on the street, Hanks and Ryan are falling in love with each other via email, anonymously. They meet in some kind of chat room and begin emailing each other relentlessly, pouring out their feelings and the poignant whispers of their simpleton hearts. It’s dramatic irony, you see—they love each other in cyberspace, hate each other in meatspace—and the filmmakers milk it for all it’s worth. Scene after scene cuts back and forth between Hanks and Ryan, reading emails on their laughably briefcaselike laptops. Every time that cheery voice tells them “Welcome. You’ve got mail,” it’s a Pavlovian cue that flutters their stomachs and tingles their privates. It’s hard to think of two happier people in the history of film.

But you know what? Joke’s on them. Because what Hanks and Ryan do not know, and can’t possibly predict, is that the same series of tubes that’s serving as a conduit for their love will soon obliterate both their businesses! Soon they’ll both be irrelevant! They’re just too blissed out by each other’s electronic mail messages to recognize that this thing in front of them—this Internet—is also a merciless destroyer of worlds.

Reader, they are us; we are them. We’re blind to the transience of so many things we feel attached to, or else we are so attuned to their transience that we don’t allow ourselves to get attached. The truth is, even as I type this, laughing and smirking at You’ve Got Mail, I understand that someone in the near future will be similarly laughing and smirking at me. (“Typing?!” they’ll say.)

Are you obligated to try new social media apps? Not at all. Use what you enjoy. Try what you think you’d enjoy. Or don’t. You alone get to map out the borders of your online life. But you are, I think, obligated to stay open to exploring new social media apps—to keep yourself from becoming too jaded, too dismissive—and to always entertain the possibility that one of them might become meaningful and useful to you. I mean, I sunk a lot of time into Friendster back in the day, and I don’t regret it. I recognize that, like Hanks and Ryan, I was merely living contentedly in the present, without knowing that the magic of that moment would inevitably crumble—or even worrying about whether it might.

“Sometimes I wonder about my life. I lead a small life … And sometimes I wonder, do I do it because I like it or because I haven’t been brave?” Ryan typed that, sent it to Hanks. Now I’m putting the question to you.

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Author: Jon Mooallem. Culture

03.10.17

11:00 am

Christoph Niemann

I’m horrible at emoji—it’s like a foreign language for me. I always get “???” replies from friends. What should I do?

In 1918, a moderately but fleetingly famous Belgian man named Jean Pierre Pierard published an intriguing column in an American newspaper. Pierard was an actor, sometimes billed as “Le Colosse,” since he happened to weigh 342 pounds. (He was just a tremendous, tremendous fellow.) He was also the “Most Married Man in the World,” and this was the particular expertise with which he was writing. What does it mean to be the Most Married Man in the World? Well, at the time, Pierard was on his 23rd wife. Since 1886 he’d averaged one marriage every 1.4 years. But still, he felt strongly that “it is not good for man to be alone.”

This is the most important thing for you to know about Pierard—and I mean you specifically, my weird emoji-aphasic friend: Jean Pierre Pierard loved being married. He loved the institution of marriage—held it in the highest esteem—and felt a strong obligation to defend and venerate it against anyone who was starting to view it with the least bit of cynicism. “I believe in marriage,” he wrote. Deep down in the hallows of his giant being, the man was a romantic. And an optimist. And nothing about the clumsiness with which his optimism or romanticism kept colliding with reality was going to drain those feelings out of him. “It may surprise you to hear it,” Pierard wrote, “but it’s the truth, that every one of these 23 times I’ve taken out a marriage license I’ve done so with the same glow of hope and faith that I had the first time.” Being married brought him joy, so he kept getting married, even if he was lousy at it. Then he kept getting married some more.

I assume that you see where I’m going. It should be obvious, especially since I’ve written it all in not-fun alphabet letters. You’re correct that emoji are essentially a foreign language. So the only way to increase your fluency in them is with real-world practice—which is to say, by failing a lot, but paying enough attention to your failures to learn from them, and by asking more skillful speakers, people you feel totally supported and unjudged by, for help and safe opportunities to practice. But most important, don’t let anyone, with their snide ???s, spoil the pleasure those emoji bring to you. Don’t be ashamed!

OK? Just one more thing about Pierard: For a time, he attempted a career as a professional wrestler. It seems like the ideal job for Le Colosse—he could just fall on people and flatten them—and yet he was terrible at this too, maybe even more terrible than he was at marriage. Because he was ticklish—tremendously ticklish. He simply could not “permit of any contact with his ribs while wrestling,” The New York Times wrote, without being debilitated by his own giggling. All that his opponents had to do, no matter how small they were, was flutter their fingers around Le Colosse’s colossal midsection, topple him, and hold him down for the count. It was basically over before it began.

And, honestly, that’s how I’d love to picture you: joyously thumb-typing your syntactically jumbled, incomprehensible kissy faces, fires, whales, and eggplants without a care in the world, pinned on the mat but laughing and laughing and laughing. Do that and you’re .

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Author: Jon Mooallem. Culture

03.09.17

11:00 am

CHRISTOPH NIEMANN

My girlfriend got me a Fitbit, but the data makes me feel lazy and ashamed. Do I have to keep using it?

I was in my kitchen the other night, slow dancing with my toddler before bedtime, when the Coldplay song “Fix You” came on—a song, I remembered reading, that Chris Martin wrote for then-girlfriend Gwyneth Paltrow after her father died—and I found myself feeling genuinely bummed, all over again, that Chris and Gwyneth had split up. I wondered what had torn them apart or whether—as these things often go—they hadn’t been torn apart but slowly undone by some dark, unspoken dissatisfaction or resentment that gradually multiplied until there was so much cumulative darkness between them that it blotted out whatever had been luminescent about their love. And that’s when I thought about you and your girlfriend and your Fitbit.

I also thought about Steve Etkin. Etkin is an engineer by training and by temperament who enjoys walking. And so a year ago, his daughter, Jordan, bought him a Fitbit. It seemed like the perfect gift. “I started receiving daily updates,” she told me, “about the number of steps he walked, the stairs he climbed. After a few weeks, I was like, ‘Hey, Dad, you’re really treating this like a job.’ ” (She was also like, hey, Dad, I don’t need all these updates.)

Anyway, it got her thinking. And, because she studies consumer behavior at Duke University’s Fuqua School of Business, she designed a study to test whether, as she put it to me, trackers like Fitbits have the capacity to “suck the enjoyment” out of previously pleasurable activities. Guess what. They do.

Etkin’s study was published in the Journal of Consumer Research. She ran a series of six experiments. In one, for example, she gave her subjects a 16-pack of Crayolas, then made a big show of tracking how many shapes one group colored in while letting others color freely, unencumbered by quantification. She did similar experiments with walking and reading, and in every one discovered the same basic result. “Measurement led participants to color more shapes, walk more steps, and read more pages. At the same time, however, it led people to enjoy coloring, walking, and reading less.” In short, people did more but felt worse doing it. Tracking redefined fun activities as work.

One problem here is that by focusing on quantifiable outcomes, trackers can diminish intrinsic motivation, which makes people stick with activities. Therefore, “measurement may sometimes actually undermine sustainable behavior change,” Etkin writes. Those insurance companies giving Fitbits to their policyholders might be shooting themselves in the (demotivated, stationary) foot.

But you know all this. It’s precisely the cycle of incentivizing and disincentivizing, of judgment and anxiety, afflicting you: that feeling that you can never take enough steps or unlock enough REM sleep. (“When you try your best but you don’t succeed … When you feel so tired but you can’t sleep.”) And, as it afflicts you, it widens the emotional space between you and your girlfriend—it feeds a smoldering grudge, because she handcuffed you with this thing. She tried to fix you, my friend. But her fixing made you feel more broken.

So you’ve got to talk to your girlfriend and take the Fitbit off, even though Etkin’s research suggests this is the worst thing you could do. (When people start tracking then suddenly stop, the fun is still ruined, but they also lose the benefit of increased output—a double whammy of underperformance and joylessness.) But who cares? It could be the only way for you and your partner to remain consciously coupled.

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Author: Jon Mooallem. Culture

03.08.17

7:00 am

Christoph Niemann

When my 5-year-old asks a question, is there a difference between looking it up in a book and just using my phone?

Recently, I watched David Kwong do some sleight of hand in a crowded theater lobby. Kwong is a magician who often consults on Hollywood films. (When a director needs, say, Jesse Eisenberg to learn a magic trick, they send him to Kwong.) Anyway, Kwong sauntered over to a guy with a deck of cards and asked him to pick one.

Honestly, I don’t know how to describe what happened next. For 30 minutes, Kwong made cards materialize in outrageous, stupefying ways, as though he were nonchalantly sliding them in and out of a parallel universe. Someone’s card flew out of the deck, spinning through the air. Another turned up in a guy’s back pocket—and not just in his back pocket, but buried deep, between his wallet and a bundle of crumpled receipts. Kwong asked someone to rip a card into four pieces, then hold them in his fist; when he opened his hand, the card was reassembled!

Maybe this doesn’t sound that impressive, written down. We all know card tricks are a thing. But the way Kwong kept relentlessly confronting us with the impossible—seeing this sorcery at close range—seemed to not just entertain people but to make them feel vulnerable and a little scared. People mewled and screamed, “No!” One poor man was reduced to crouching on the floor, laughing so euphorically he couldn’t catch his breath. (OK, that was me.) The guy with the ripped-up card in his fist refused to open it at first, shaking his head like a child terrified to look at his boo-boo, afraid of what he’d find. “He has total power over us,” one woman said quietly, gravely. She sounded creeped out. It was so much fun!

Now, I’m sure everyone in that crowd wondered how Kwong was doing it, but it’s a rare bird who goes home and actually labors to understand the mechanics of how such tricks are engineered. (Those rare birds become magicians—it’s how Kwong got his start.) Most of us perceive magic tricks to be unreplicable, to violate the reality we inhabit. They’re, you know, magic.

To a 5-year-old, phones are magic. The internet is magic. An older kid might be able to understand the technology and infrastructure involved, the nature of Wikipedia, and so on, but for a child so young, the answer just appears, miraculously, like a playing card yanked from a bystander’s back pocket. Leafing through a book together, by comparison, is a more collaborative, tactile, self-evident process. It’s a journey toward the answer, one that your child gets to go on.

What I’m talking about is the difference between learning and being told, between answering a specific question and getting a child excited about answering it on their own. It’s fun to amaze your 5-year-old, sure. But it’s more gratifying to set your kid up to one day amaze you.

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Author: Jon Mooallem. Culture

03.06.17

11:00 am

Christoph Niemann

Is flirting on LinkedIn less weird than on other social media? After all, it can vouch for you in a substantive way.

Whoa. Hang on. Let’s first poke at the premise of your question, because the implications here are huge. Notice how you casually presume your résumé offers a more substantive representation of your basic humanity than, say, all the tweets you’ve tweeted or all the digital artifacts amassed on your Facebook page. Think of the photos on Facebook alone: You in a rowboat with the gentle-looking man playing a banjo whom we understand to be your deceased (too young) father. You being silly—but not obnoxiously silly, just innocently, endearingly silly—in the Halloween aisle of a big-box store. You tagged in a photo of that kid you mentored that one summer, as he graduates from Berkeley. You climbing a goddamned mountain! Like, with pickaxes and stuff!

Do these not substantively communicate the substance of your life? Don’t they “vouch” for you to potential dates as a safe, noncreepy, sufficiently together human being, a sympathetic soul tumbling through the fundamental experience of being alive and looking for companionship? Or is that better captured with a line like this: “January 2013-November 2014, Senior Operations Associate, Mobitly Inc.”?

You seem to think it is. And I’ll admit—begrudgingly—that you may have a point. Because the lines have been blurred between our work lives and our emotional lives, our careers and our intrinsic selves. We subconsciously gauge a person’s character by their professional standing, and our experiences and attitude toward our work aren’t only sometimes relevant to our love lives. In fact, the two can feel crucially interwoven: The best startup founders are those who operate out of passion and devotion and with a kind of hyper-monogamous obsession. On the other hand, we all feel obligated to work on our relationships with the same myopic, idealistic intensity. And it can feel natural to apply the lessons we learn relating to people in one realm to our relationships in the other.

Take, for example, Jeff Weiner, LinkedIn’s CEO. I confess, I’m not a LinkedIn user, but I’ve been reading up on Weiner and, I have to say, he seems like a wonderful guy—a principled, thoughtful man who says very grounded, Jerry Maguire-type things like, “I’ve never been title-driven; for the most part, I’ve been purpose-driven.” He also reads books by the Dalai Lama, contemplates the difference between compassion and empathy, and practices mindfulness techniques like “being a spectator to my own thoughts,” which enhance his ability to relate to and motivate his employees. He calls his style “compassionate management.”

In an essay he wrote a few years ago, Weiner described leaving work one evening, feeling proud of the strides he’d made as a compassionate manager, only to be felled by the epiphany that he’d been very uncompassionately neglecting his wife. He was working so hard, he wrote, that at night, “when my wife would try to bring up her day, or talk about the things we need to get done, I would reflexively say something to the effect that it had been a long day, I was exhausted, and could we talk about it some other time?” In other words: “For as hard as I worked to manage compassionately at the office, I was not always actively applying the same approach with my family.” So Weiner applied the same compassionate management style to his marriage and made things right.

I worry that sounds off, like the emotionally tone-deaf insights of a stereotypical tech baron. But trust me, the way Weiner explained it, it sounded cool—real. (And know this too: Worried that I’d gush in this column about Weiner’s coolness and realness only to learn later that Weiner is actually not cool and not real and is, in truth, as imperious as Genghis Khan or a Grade A, misogynistic, steroidal jerk, I sat down and Googled “Jeff Weiner LinkedIn jerk” and was happy to find, as the first result, a post singling him out as a “counterweight” to the industry’s many other CEO-jerks. So that was reassuring—even if the post was published on LinkedIn. But even that can be interpreted as a testament to Weiner’s character, because it was Weiner, I learned, who had the vision to expand LinkedIn from a bland résumé farm into a successful publishing platform.)

I’ll go even further. I wouldn’t be surprised if a man as smart as Weiner already knows all this, knows that we live in an age where one of the prime, romantically reassuring things about another person—the thing that “vouches” for them best as a potential mate—is that they’re a trustworthy, hardworking, successful employee. And therefore, he also secretly knows that LinkedIn could be the ultimate dating site, though he wisely stops short of saying it. Instead, he just dog-whistles about that potential to attentive users and eagle-eyed investors, thus preserving the opportunity to pivot the company explicitly in that direction should the climate change and the need arise. Recently, for example, he told an interviewer, “Our core value proposition to members is to help them connect to opportunity,” and touted “the power of this as a platform to enable capital”—especially “human capital”—“to flow where it can best be leveraged.”

Isn’t he talking about dating, about setting people up? When Tevye and Golde’s daughters sang, “Matchmaker, matchmaker, make me a match,” weren’t they basically asking a kind of social networking platform to send their own human capital flowing toward whichever shtetl boy would give it the highest valuation and invest? Why shouldn’t you flirt on LinkedIn? Why shouldn’t love be one of the opportunities LinkedIn connects us with?

So, yes. You are right. And you’ve taught me a lot—you and Jeff Weiner both. I can see clearly now how we’ve all tied ourselves into a knot of careerism and affection and equity and sex, and maybe that’s just the way it has to be. I’m remembering now what happened when Jerry Maguire—the real Jerry Maguire—showed up in that living room, shivering, trying to win back his wife, who also happened to be his business partner at their new sports-agenting startup, how he told her, “You … you complete me.” But, more important, there was the line he slipped her right before that famous line. Suddenly, in the middle of his monologue, he was compelled to say, like a man giving a keynote at a conference, “We live in a cynical world, a cynical world, and we work in a business of tough competitors.”

Why? Why include that? What could Jerry Maguire possibly have meant? I think he meant: The internet is full of sinister strangers. It’s a hostile place in which to offer up your soul. But here I am. Look at me. View my profile. I’d like to connect with you on LinkedIn.

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Author: Jon Mooallem. Culture

03.03.17

11:00 am

Christoph Niemann

I work in a casual tech setting and I’m shocked by how much everyone swears. Should I say something?

Imagine what it was like to be a Puritan in 1642. You’ve come to America. The landscape is crude and endless; the soundtrack, all hissing insects and howling wolves. “Everything about the place seemed godforsaken,” writes the natural historian Tim Flannery in his book The Eternal Frontier. That lawless emptiness is why you’re here—it means freedom. But in all free and empty places, there’s also room for wickedness to grow. Everybody in your little settlement is aware of this, which is why they panic when, one day, someone happens upon a young man named Thomas Granger having sex with a horse.

It’s worse than you thought: When confronted, Granger rapidly admits he’s also had intercourse with three cows, two goats, five sheep, and a turkey. This behavior is so savage—and feels like such a threat to the ethical society you’re laboring to build there in the wild—that you respond with a campaign of ruthless cleansing. You round up each animal Granger has had sex with and force the young man to watch while you slaughter it. (Not the turkey, though; for some reason, Flannery notes, no one bothers with the turkey.) And since you can’t tell which of the village’s sheep were the particular sheep Granger penetrated—his descrip­tions are imprecise—you herd every sheep in front of him, like a police lineup, and force him to ID the five in question. Then you kill those five sheep too. Then you kill Granger. Then you throw all their bodies together in one big pit.

Now, fast-forward 373 years. Let’s talk about you.

It’s easy to imagine you, hunched in your tech company’s open floor plan, forced to sit on an inflatable ball or perhaps issued one of those iconoclastic standing desks without a chair at all. You are a wary pilgrim on the wild, godless edge of America’s economic frontier. And, as such, you under­stand that the foul language your colleagues are using isn’t just unpleasant but morally precarious; if it continues unchecked, it could lead you all—your entire industry, really—to much darker places. You know, just as the Puritans did, that this kind of impropriety needs to be nipped in the bud.

That’s how you feel, right? Well, you’re wrong.

You’re not the Puritans. You’re the kid shtupping the cows. Because the lesson of the Granger story—as I read it—isn’t that morality always wins. It’s that the mob always wins. The majority’s norms always beat back and outlast the minority’s. And the mob can be cruel: They’ll kill the thing you love right in front of you, then dump you in the ground.

I think you need to go along with the mob.

Does it matter if my kid’s handwriting is terrible?

Well, I happen to love handwriting. I think it’s curiously fun to look at and a considerable, if mostly esoteric, value-add to the written language—even in an era of tablets and smartwatches and speech-recognition software. But does it matter if your child writes illegibly? My answer is no, probably not. Handwriting is an old technology—about 5,000 years old. And as with newer old technologies (muskets or floppy disks or cars with human beings driving them), some people may inevitably feel a tinge of melancholy watching it sputter into oblivion. And yet the truth is that humanity has always replaced old tools with new ones, and often, once we’ve pushed through the emotionally charged transitional phase and come out the other end, everything feels fine again.

Take, for example, a woman named Kristin Gulick in Bend, Oregon, who often has trouble reading messages scribbled by her chronically illegible office receptionist. “Yesterday I tried to dial a number that she’d written down, and I couldn’t read it,” Gulick told me recently. “I had to go back out and ask, ‘What does this say?’” And the receptionist was just like, ha ha ha, I know my handwriting’s terrible—you know, giggling the annoyance away. Was Gulick peeved? Yes. But was this a fireable offense or some irrevocable inconvenience? Not even close. In fact, Gulick really had no choice but to laugh the whole thing off too. “Thank God she’s good at other things!” she said, and life went on.

So there’s your answer. But who is Kristin Gulick, anyway? So glad you asked!

Handwriting may be one of those fundamentally human abilities—one that binds us to our own identities.

Gulick has been an occupational therapist for 28 years, specializ­ing in arms and hands. She’s in private practice now, but shortly after 9/11 she found herself working at Walter Reed Army Medical Center in Washington, DC. A recent government report disclosed that more than 1,000 of the 50,000 soldiers who’ve been wounded in action in Iraq and Afghanistan—2.6 percent—have come back missing limbs, and Gulick was there to greet some of the first ones, helping them work around their loss and rejoin their life. Part of this work involved “transferring dominance” from one hand to the other; if a righty lost their right arm, say, they needed to learn to be a lefty now. And part of that was relearning handwriting—even just enough to fill out the deluge of hospital forms and sign their name.

Gulick found a total dearth of tools and curricula. Really, there was nothing. While she encouraged people to use first-grade handwriting primers early in her career, they were full of infantilizing penmanship exercises involving anthro­pomorphic animals. These books were not only unhelpful but degrading: Having lost a limb, many of these people were already feeling vulnerable and diminished. Now they were being treated—literally—like children. Gulick and an officer in the Army Medical Specialist Corps, Katie Yancosek, decided they could do better. “We’d give them exercises about balancing their checkbook and not about a little bunny or whatever,” Gulick said. The result was a six-week program, laid out in a workbook called Handwriting for Heroes. (The third edition was published this year.)

Look, I don’t mean to play some righteous, wounded-veteran card and make anyone feel bad. But I think we all see where this is going: It’s easy to write off handwriting only because most of us take it for granted. But I listened to Gulick talk about handwriting for a while, about what the ability to jot off a simple grocery list or be-right-back note for your spouse—functional but maybe also aesthetically pleasing or expressive, something you have created—does for a person’s sense of self-sufficiency and pride after working hard to regain that skill. How handwriting, really, may be one of those fundamentally human abilities—one that binds us, in a tiny way, to each other and to our own identities.

Your child won’t feel anything remotely like that sense of loss if they let their handwriting go to seed. Their lives will move forward in standardized fonts. If they absolutely have to write anything by hand, it may be disordered and illegible, but they can just laugh it off and explain (or text) what they meant. And that’s why I’ll stick with my first answer: It probably doesn’t matter. But I also think that, if we’re prepared to let handwriting go—to not care how ugly it gets—we should, at least, take a second to think about how beautiful it can be.

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Author: Jon Mooallem. Culture

03.01.17

11:00 am

Christoph Niemann

The same person keeps accidentally pocket-dialing me. Should I confront him?

Let's zoom out for a second: For more than 40 years, scientists have been debating whether we should be actively sending messages into outer space or just using projects like SETI to listen for messages sent to us—and not just whether we should broadcast anything, but what and how. Do we shoot out a bunch of math, to show aliens we understand math? Do we send pictures? Music? And if so, what math? What pictures? What music? There have been scientific workshops to hash this out in Toulouse, Paris, Zagreb, Houston, and Mountain View. There have been peer-reviewed journal articles with titles like “The Art and Science of Interstellar Message Composition.” It's a big, messy, excruciatingly meticulous back-and-forth.

And yet—all this time, while all those eggheads have been arguing—gobs and gobs of our satellite transmissions, television broadcasts, radio shows, and cell phone conversations have been quietly, sloppily spilling into outer space. It's all just oozing off our planet and into the cosmos like so much electromagnetic sewage—a phenomenon scientists call leakage. In other words, we're already beaming messages into the void—weak signals, but millions of them every day, without even realizing it or being careful about what we say. We are butt-dialing the universe!

Now say someone out there actually picks up that call. Wouldn't you like to know? Yes, it's embarrassing to realize we've made that sort of clumsy connection. But isn't it always just a little bit nice to know we've made a connection at all? So my advice is: Tell this person. Tell him he reached you. Tell him you were there.

CHRISTOPH NIEMANN

Is it unethical to crowdfund a project I don't totally believe in?

A month after the Boston Tea Party, in January 1774—with the idea of rebellion gaining momentum in Boston and patriots feeling more powerful than the remaining loyalists in town—a strange character who called himself Joyce Junior started stoking that new sense of boldness on the streets. Junior walked around elaborately costumed, like some anarchist harlequin, and posted flyers threatening any “vile ingrates” who were still loyal to the crown. Loyalists should be punished, he wrote. And he slyly suggested precisely how, signing his treatises: “Chairman of the Committee for Tarring and Feathering.”

Ten days later, a low-level British government customs official, John Malcom, got into an argument with a well-known patriot shoemaker on the street.

One thing led to another, and soon an angry mob had “swarmed around [Malcom's] house,” wrote Nathaniel Philbrick in his book Bunker Hill. Very quickly, all of Boston's frustration and resentment with England began to come down on this one middling bureaucrat. The rioters bum-rushed Malcom's home with ladders and axes. Once inside, they lashed him with sticks, then pushed him on a sled for hours through the snowy, unlit streets and bitter cold, collecting more irate Bostonians as they went. The mob mocked him. They threatened to cut off his ears. They beat him and beat him. Soon more than a thousand people had joined in. They ripped off Malcom's clothes. They coated his skin with steaming tar. They covered him with feathers.

The abuse went on for hours. When they finally dumped Malcom in front of his house, Philbrick wrote: “his frozen body had begun to thaw, his tarred flesh started to peel off in ‘steaks.’”

It was awful—all of it. And apparently, it was particularly distressing to Joyce Junior, the Wavy Gravy-esque performance artist who'd threatened British loyalists with tarring and feathering in the first place—the man who'd hammered that idea into the public consciousness, inspiring all that brutality. We know Junior felt culpable, because he immediately started doing damage control, scrambling to disown his idea. Junior issued another statement. It began: “This is to certify that the modern punishment lately inflicted on the ignoble John Malcom was not done by our order.”

Now, I don't think this project you want to crowdfund is likely to inadvertently encourage an angry mob to parboil an innocent man in his own flesh, then blanket him with feathers. But it's important to remember that ideas are volatile, powerful things. And so are crowds. They have a way of infecting each other and taking on a life of their own. So all I'm saying is, be honest—be real. If you only kind of think it's a good idea, it's OK to say so. The crowd will decide for itself if you're right. And it may surprise you.

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Author: Jon Mooallem. Culture

02.28.17

11:00 am

Christoph Niemann

My dad leaves incredibly embarrassing comments under every photo I post to Facebook and Instagram. What should I do?

Let’s face it: Dads are embarrassing. I remember, a couple of years ago, reading a newspaper story about a boy named Brooklyn who was so distressed by the prospect of his friends catching sight of his dweeby father that he insisted his dad drop him off around the corner from school and stay out of view. Why was this a newspaper story, you ask? Don’t millions of mortified children do this every day? Yes, and that’s my point. In this case, however, the dad in question was David Beckham.

See, dad-­barrassment is universal—a condition of existence, like the weather. What matters is how well we endure it: whether we slough it off or allow it to seep inside us.

Consider another famous dad: Teddy Roosevelt. Yes, that guy—America’s first presidential man’s man. This is a guy who hunted bears and lions, who got into bar fights with cowboys, who resigned as assistant secretary of the Navy to actually fight a war rather than just plan one. Teddy Roosevelt loved war. War was his jam. As the historian Alexis Coe told me recently, “He treated everything like a battlefield.” In October 1912, Roosevelt was about to give a campaign speech in Milwaukee when a would-be assassin shot him in the chest. The bullet ripped through the copy of his speech in his pocket. There was a big bloody wound. Still, Roosevelt spoke for more than an hour, like a wounded infantryman still bayoneting people on the battlefield.

I’d called Coe after listening to the podcast , which she cohosts with former Daily Show head writer Elliott Kalan. Their Roosevelt episode suggested that Teddy’s warmongering machismo was bound up in his dad. During the Civil War, Roosevelt had watched his father, Theodore senior, pay for a surrogate to fight in his place. For Teddy, Coe says, “this was always a great source of shame. His celebration of masculinity and war, his romanticization of war as an experience to all men, is a reaction to his dad.” And if, to overcompensate for this excruciating embarrassment, Roosevelt felt compelled to speechify for over an hour while his torso hemorrhaged, then that’s his decision. But it also affected his own parenting.

Roosevelt had four sons, and he wanted his boys to be the valorous warriors his own father hadn’t been. When World War I broke out, the youngest, Quentin, memorized an eye chart to ensure he’d pass his exam and be able to serve. He was, in short order, shot down and killed by the Germans. Roosevelt was crestfallen. “To feel that one has inspired a boy to conduct that has resulted in his death has a pretty serious side for a father,” he wrote. He died himself six months later.

But the misery he wrought continued. One son, Archibald, had his knee ripped apart by a grenade. Another, Ted Jr., was wounded in France, then died of a heart attack while serving in World War II. Kermit, Roosevelt’s second son, served in both wars, then ultimately shot himself in the head on a base in Alaska.

You wrote because you didn’t like some comments on Instagram and Facebook. I’m talking about shame and war and death. It’s hardly fair, you’ll say, and you’re right. But this story shows, I think, that dad-­barrassment is a powerful and unpredictable force; it warps the imagination, it pollutes the soul. The perpetrators are, inevitably, also victims.

By all means, ask your father—gently—if he wouldn’t mind toning down the comments. Tell him to text you privately instead, if you’d prefer. But ultimately the onus is not on your father to stop embarrassing you, but on you to reconcile the embarrassment you feel. I worry you’ve started seeing your father primarily as an engine of embarrassment, not as a complex human being entitled to express his wit, his playfulness, his love.

So, stomach it. Take the bullet, carry on.

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Author: Jon Mooallem. Culture

02.27.17

11:00 am

Christoph Niemann

I’m an omnivore, but are there animals that are just too intelligent to eat?

During high school, I went to visit a friend in Louisiana. Because I was a Northerner who’d never been to the South, I was given a lot of exotically Southern stuff to eat, like alligator and rattlesnake. Then came the big Louisianan feast: heaps of spicy crayfish, which we savagely twisted the heads off of then washed down with gallons and gallons of Dr Pepper.

When I got up to go pee, one of the men at the table told me to be sure to wash my hands first. He said it with a tinge of darkness, a whiff of trauma. He explained that it was unwise for a man to go from handling spicy crayfish to handling his penis. He’d been careless once and paid the price. So I washed my hands. But I still remember how worried I was, unzipping, and how hesitantly I moved my hand down, like a kid playing Operation, dreading that horrible bzzz. I’d absorbed the trauma vicariously, but my anxiety was real.

I thought of this when I read that researchers at the University of Bordeaux in France detected a similar kind of intelligently learned anxiety in crayfish. (After suffering a trauma, the crayfish were reluctant to venture into brightly lit, risky areas.) The scientists also found they could alleviate that anxiety by giving the crayfish a Valium-style drug. And while the scientists were careful not to embellish these findings with any anthropomorphic presumptions, I think we all sense the underlying epiphany here: Crayfish are a little more like us than we expected.

These days, it seems, everybody wants to know how smart their meat is. There are all kinds of startling farm-­animal-cognition studies. We know that cows enjoy solving problems and have been known to jump into the air excitedly when they finally crack a tough one. Chickens are exceptionally good at delaying gratification, understand small numbers and basic physics, and can adroitly manage the thermostat of their coop. Sheep can remember and recognize as many as 50 human faces without making a mistake. Pigs excel at videogames played with special pig joysticks. And even opossums—yes, some people eat them—turn out to be excellent maze runners. One study ranked opossums’ “probability learning” skills second only to humans’ and higher than dogs’. Opossums! Those things that do very little and look dead most of the time!

The upshot, I’d argue, is that all animals are likely too intelligent to eat. Whether you go on eating them, with that knowledge, is up to you. You probably will. I do—proof that intelligence may be massively overrated.

Should I worry that my kid can’t spell? Does spelling matter anymore?

Did you hear about Thomas Hurley III? He was on Jeopardy! last year as an eighth grader—a likable kid from Connecticut with Peter Brady bangs and a blue dress shirt buttoned up to the jugular. He lost. And he lost, in part, because in Final Jeopardy, he wrote “Emanciptation Proclamation” instead of “Emancipation Proclamation.”

Does spelling matter anymore? Honestly, I don’t think so. I mean, initially, even schoolmarmy Alex Trebek read right over Hurley’s mistake. As a defiant Hurley told his local newspaper, “It was just a spelling error.”

Then again, spelling isn’t just about communicating. The culture still views it as a sign of intelligence, diligence, and sophistication. Bad, lackadaisical spellers are not looked at kindly. And neither was Hurley’s contention that he’d been “cheated.” (“Learn how to accept defeat, kid, or you will be disappointed for the rest of your life,” one Facebook comment read.) Clearly, autocorrect and other technologies have started a slow sea change, and maybe one day the persnickety spelling police among us will all have died out and we’ll be free to spel thingz howeEVA weeeeeeeeeee wonte. But, until that day, allowing your kids to blow off spelling may empower them to go against a societal norm without considering the day-to-day discomfort and judgment it could bring: the consequences for them but also for you, their parent.

“He was a little stunned by it,” Hurley’s mom said after the defeat. “He felt embarrassed. It was hard to watch.”

Should I give myself a weekend phone time-out? What if I miss important work?

What kind of job do you have? What kind of boss do you have? How tolerant? How demanding? One possibility is that you’re a senior adviser to the secretary of state, and your inability to be reached during a flare-up by a North African paramilitary group—because you’re lying in a park with a kale-and-bee-pollen smoothie and that copy of The Goldfinch you’ve been meaning to get to—leads to a severe diplomatic misstep and a weeks-long umbrage carnival on Fox News that can only be quelled by the semi-ritualistic firing and public shaming of the bureaucrat responsible: i.e., you. Another is that you’re a beverage distribution middle­man, and your boss—who happens to be triple-checking stuff at the office on a Saturday night because he’s going through a divorce and doesn’t know what to do with himself—discovers a niggling glitch in your paperwork that may have sent an extra case of Fresca to Denver, but because your phone’s off he calls Greta, and after a couple minutes of digging she assures him that all the Frescas are, in fact, where they need to be.

See the difference? You’ve given me absolutely no information—just dashed off your question as quickly as possible without a second of reflection. And this suggests that you’re whizzing recklessly through life and, still accelerating, throttled by permanent urgency. You need a break. Your soul needs a break. I have no idea what the consequences might be—how could I?—but I think you should switch off that phone.

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Author: Jon Mooallem. Culture

02.24.17

11:00 am

Christoph Niemann

I read that mice injected with blood from younger mice improve on cognitive tests. Should I bank my blood?

So yeah, I went and read about this too. I read that for years scientists have been taking an old mouse and a young mouse, putting them next to each other, and stitching their circulatory systems together, just like jump-starting a car. Then they let the blood of one mouse circulate through the other—a process called parabiosis. And introducing the young mouse's blood—or even just introducing one particular protein found in the blood, called GDF11—to an old mouse does all sorts of wonderful stuff: It allows the old mouse to run longer on a treadmill. It changes the old mouse's brain in ways that suggests its memory has been improved. I read that it even rejuvenates a crusty old-mouse heart. Like, voilà! The heart isn't crusty anymore.

I also read that a Harvard scientist named Amy Wagers was “already working to commercialize” GDF11, which is found in human blood too. And this was the eye-opener for me: Even as scientists are always cautioning the media that it's way to soon to speculate about their studies' implications, one of these scientists—the one named Wagers, aptly—was already placing her bet.

Good for her, I say. I'm all for capitalism! But I'm also all for hematological self-determination. (Or, say, blood freedom.) I'd hate, one day, to have to pay some multinational corporation for a synthetic knockoff of my own younger self's blood—the very stuff that was pumping through my body for decades without costing me a damn cent. What a dystopia that would be! There'd be kids on the corner with clipboards, asking for donations so Americans for Hematological Self-Determination could sue these corporations. There'd be Blood Freedom teach-ins and Blood Freedom protest songs—which would be hard because “Blood Freedom” really doesn't rhyme with much.

So my answer is yes, absolutely. Stockpile your blood now, as much as can be squirreled away at the proper temperature. Just in case. Think of it as a tiny hedge against the Wagers of the future.

I get a lot of swag from startups—messenger bags, fleeces, hats, T-shirts—and my girlfriend makes fun of me for wearing it. Which is the douchiest to wear? Like, is a fleece cooler than a hat?

Look, I don't care what you wear, but I do think that a startup fleece is definitely not cooler than a startup hat, because a startup fleece puts the name and logo of the startup in closer proximity to your heart than a startup hat would. My instinct is, keep this stuff away from your heart. Far away. The closer to your heart, the douchier.

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Author: Jon Mooallem. Culture

02.23.17

11:00 am

Christoph Niemann

My best friend dropped our Snapchat streak, and I’m hurt. What should I do?

Oof. I know how it feels. Streaks are magic; streaks are wild. There you are, you and your bestie, slinging those pictures and videos back and forth, getting that sacred pendulum of digital adorableness and hilarity moving between you, and you start to feel momentum, don’t you? A rhythmic bond—a fellowship, a closeness—taking hold. You’re in it together! And, better still, that little flaming number keeps ticking up, higher and higher. You’re watching your progress, reciprocally micro­dosing the endorphins. Then suddenly, all that excitement stops. You send a snap, and no snap comes back. It’s a gut punch. It’s over. You’re dropped.

Like I said: Oof. I empathize. And yet I can’t claim to understand the hurt of being dropped nearly as well as Maica Folch, who has been literally dropped and literally hurt from the dropping.

Folch is an aerialist in San Francisco who spent much of her adult life working as a trapeze artist. She started when she was just a teenager. Has Folch ever been dropped? Yes. Yes, she has. And, somewhere beneath the acute pain of impact, did she also feel something akin to the abandonment and resentment you’re dealing with? No, she did not.

It’s 1987, Barcelona. Dress rehearsal, the day before a big aerial dance performance. Folch has been hoisted 80 feet off the ground in a meticulously engineered elastic harness. And yet not so meticulously, because there’s been a miscalculation with the rigging and, before Folch can comprehend what’s happening, she sees the floor racing toward her.

She is falling, most likely to her death. And it’s just like everyone says: “I saw the movie of my life,” she tells me. She hears her gasping colleagues calling out as she speeds down at them. What happens next is unexpected, and yet it happens so naturally. “I was so peaceful,” Folch says. “And I fell down like a feather.”

She hits the ground. She bounces. Bounces! Remember, she’s basically tied to an enormous rubber band, and this serene feather of a woman bounces so high that she’s able to grab a rope up there and steady herself. “If I had freaked out and come down with an intense energy,” Folch says—if she’d stiffened and steeled herself—her body would have shattered. Instead she was bruised, like a fallen apple, but “didn’t break a bone.”

And here’s the most helpful part of the story: It never occurred to Folch, after being dropped, to feel jilted or angry. “When something goes wrong,” she says, “there is no one to blame.” It’s a kind of aerialist credo, really—put loyalty and trust first. You say to each other, “I love what I do, I love doing it with you, and if I start doing it with you, it’s because I trust you,” she explains.

“We don’t live in a perfect world,” Folch says. Carabiners fail. People fail. Friends don’t always return your snap. And it’s probably not because they don’t love you but likely just because none of us, zipping around on our phones and in real life simultaneously, swinging like trapeze artists between these two platforms of frenetic distraction, can be expected to do it all perfectly or to recognize the many distant and private emotional burdens our little snaps might bear. We will let each other down. It’s just a fact. But we all deserve some slack, some good faith—especially from our best friends.

The secret to a thriving trapeze partnership, Folch says, is not necessarily forgiveness but refusing to think of the inevitable disappointments of life as requiring forgiveness in the first place. “You create unconditional relationships. There is pain. There is guilt. But you don’t disappear from the picture.”

And so my answer is: Move on. You’re fine. Learn to love more. Learn from Folch, who knew, deep down, how to handle being dropped and how to bounce back too.

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Author: Jon Mooallem. Culture

10.28.16

7:00 am

Christoph Niemann

I pictured this Nest Cam looming over you—pictured its one dark eye, unblinking—and I immediately thought of that nasty old Cyclops who terrorizes Odysseus and his men in The Odyssey. What was his name? What was the story, exactly? I figured I better reread that bit.

In a nutshell, Odysseus and his men are returning from a long, atrocious war. Landing for a stopover on the island of the Cyclopes, Odysseus confesses he’s at a loss to understand this mountaintop-dwelling race of one-eyed savages: They don’t fear the gods! They have no laws! They are just too alien to be intelligible; Odysseus sees them only as “brutes,” beneath his regard. So he leads his men into a cave—the home of one particular Cyclops who isn’t home—and ransacks it. They build a fire and help themselves to all his many cheeses.

Well, the Cyclops—his name is Polyphemus—is pretty ticked off when he returns (the original “Who moved my cheese?”). And Odysseus suddenly turns diffident and cloying: “We’re at your knees in hopes of a warm welcome,” he tells the Cyclops. But does he apologize for what essentially amounts to home invasion? No, he does not. Instead, he demands a gift! That’s right, Odysseus asks the giant for a “guest-gift,” the giving of which, he explains, is a mandatory and sacred custom between guests and their hosts, as dictated by his Greek gods.

Let’s pause the narrative right there. I was sure the story had something instructive to say about what happens when the expectations of a guest and the expectations of his host don’t match up. Because your problem seems to be that you expect privacy, while your hosts expect to continue protecting their home with the latest Wi-Fi–enabled surveillance tools. They’d like to keep their minds at ease; you’d like to keep their eyes off your privates. And I felt obligated to defend their interests—privilege them—and conclude that the host-guest power dynamic is tilted toward the host and that, like it or not (and in your case I certainly wouldn’t like it either), being a guest means accepting a degree of powerlessness. Keeping the camera running is disrespectful to you, and creepy, but maybe that’s just how it’s got to be.

But then, back in The Odyssey, things escalated. Polyphemus bashes two of the men on the ground of his cave until “their brains gushed out all over,” then rips off their limbs and eats them. So Odysseus sharpens a stake, heats it in a fire, and stabs it through the Cyclops’ single peeper. It’s an ugly story, in other words. And its ugliness snapped me back to reality. Because you are not some pea-sized Odysseus trapped in a terrible colossus’s cave. You are a human being staying in another human being’s house, and part of what makes us human is our willingness to engage in empathic back-and-forths to reconcile conflicting expectations. We compro­mise. We try to act decently toward each other.

And suddenly I pictured you, alone in another person’s cavernous house, with that ominous, unyielding eyeball trained on you 24/7, and I imagined how vulnerable and exposed you must feel—how stripped of self-respect—and also how resentful. Because why else would the first solution that occurred to you be, essentially, to blind the camera? No, you don’t have a right to do so. But couldn’t you take a more obvious, less defiant tack? Couldn’t you just respectfully ask your host to deactivate the camera? Or to program it around your daily schedule, so it only flicks on when you leave?

I really don’t think it will be a hard conversation to have; part of me assumes it never occurred to the homeowners how uncomfortable leaving that camera on would make you feel. But I get it: Sometimes we stew for so long that we get lost overthinking these things. Maybe what we learn from Homer, ultimately, is that not every problem is epic.

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Author: Jon Mooallem. Culture

09.25.16

6:40 am

christoph Niemann

My cat will only drink from a running tap—not even a cat fountain. But I live in a drought-stricken state. Help?

You’re familiar with the Misfits, I assume. They are iconic, the so-called horror-punk band that played hard and demonically fast while singer Glenn Danzig—a huge, dark creature from New Jersey with a forbidding curtain of long black hair—screamed. Danzig’s songs had titles like “Skulls” and “Die, Die My Darling” and, of course, “Mommy, Can I Go Out and Kill Tonight?” That last one could, arguably, be read as a bloodthirsty anthem written in solidarity with America’s imprisoned house cats because, as the world would eventually discover, Danzig is a cat fancier.

A few years ago, pockets of the Internet had a good laugh at Danzig’s expense when a photograph surfaced of him walking out of a grocery store carrying a tub of Fresh Step kitty litter. (If you don’t understand why this was funny, one incredibly left-brained commenter on the site Metalsucks.net provided this analysis: “It is funny because it is something of an ironic satire to see someone who has widely been written about as an offbeat satanist buying kitty litter.”) Danzig himself had another take: “Why do people even care?” he shot back. “Why are they wasting their lives on this?” He had a point. People laughed at him for not being punk enough; he outpunked them all by not caring.

“Glenn Danzig is my spirit animal,” Daniel Quagliozzi told me recently. Quagliozzi is the proprietor of Go, Cat, Go!, a feline behavioral consultancy in San Francisco; he comes to your house and troubleshoots your cat problems. DQ, as he’s known, also grew up in New Jersey and spent his formative years deep in the punk scene, whipping his then-­mohawked head around to the Misfits. “They don’t want to be told what to do. They don’t want your hands on them or their lifestyle,” DQ explains—and this, he adds, is precisely what he appreciates about cats as well.

“I relate to them. I relate to their F U attitude toward society. They make you wonder, ‘Why the hell did I invite them in the house in the first place?’” In fact, DQ has regularly seen owners of defiant felines reduced to “wearing shrouds of cardboard to protect themselves from their swatting cats, or carrying water pistols or air horns to blast their cats away.” One guy resigned himself to keeping the litter box on his couch, because that’s where the cat insisted on pissing and crapping. All too often, DQ says, people are “just not ready for the hostile takeover.”

When I asked DQ about your problem, he let out a long sigh and said, “The running water thing is so … God.” There are countless reasons why a cat would demand a running faucet. “Maybe the water in the bowl is stale or not the right temperature, or the bowl might be too small and it’s creating whisker stress.” (Yes, whisker stress: Google it.) Maybe the cat feels more secure on the counter. “Or it could be boredom.” Maybe your cat leads such a dreary life that trickling water qualifies as fun.

My advice? Hire DQ. Fly him in if you have to; frankly, the guy’s aptitude with cats blew me away. Otherwise, he suggested trying to “mimic what’s happening in the same location.” Start by putting a recirculating fountain next to the sink; often, DQ says, we overlook the importance of location when assessing cat problems. (Maybe, for example, your cat just wants its water separate from its food, or up off the ground.)

But most of all: Steel yourself for confrontation—for a kind of protracted, brutal brinkmanship. Your cat isn’t likely to go on strike and die of thirst, DQ says, but any change you make will likely leave the animal “anxious and unsettled.” And that is “definitely going to be harder on the guardian than it is on the cat.” That is, the cat will try to own you—belittle you. Find your inner Danzig and flip the script.

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Author: Jon Mooallem. Culture

05.24.16

9:00 am

I think someone is hate-retweeting me. She has 25K followers! Should I call her out?

Easy. Couldn’t be easier. Hate-favoriting and hate-retweeting is childish behavior. So if you want to be bold, by all means call her out. And if you want to be less bold but perhaps more effective, just block her: Game over.

And yet, can I be honest? This may be the most subtly perplexing question I’ve ever had to pretend to be a know-it-all about. Because if I push just a bit on your premise, it all goes soft. I can see ancillary dilemmas, qualifications, and niggling unknowns pile up until the kind of clear, objective truth I’m required to find gets hopelessly boxed in. There’s a lot here to pick apart. Let’s start with the corrosive, discombobulating nature of spite.

Ever heard of the Spite Fence? Go back to 1876. San Francisco’s Big Four—the four main bazillionaire railroad barons—all decided to build mansions on a scenic, empty hilltop: Nob Hill. At least, it was mostly empty. Bounded within the large property purchased by one of these magnates, Charles Crocker, was a little house on a small, separate parcel owned by an undertaker named Nicholas Yung. Crocker wanted Yung gone; Yung wouldn’t sell. Crocker, bewildered that his money hadn’t made this inconvenience go away, kept making offers. Yung kept declining. So Crocker—overcome with spite—started a flame war. Or a wall war.

Crocker built his mansion. Then he built a 30-foot-high wall on his land that effectively surrounded Yung’s property. It shut out the light. It shut Yung in. It was ridiculous looking, and people came from all over to gawk at it. There was a kind of class war brewing in the city at the time, and one activist pamphlet singled out Crocker’s fence as a “very obnoxious” symbol of “the domineering spirit” of the wealthy. The San Francisco Chronicle called the Spite Fence an “inartistic monument of resentment” and a “memorial of malignity and malevolence.” Yet Yung—the simple undertaker, just wanting to live his life, in his house—didn’t sell. The undertaker was himself essentially buried, though still aboveground. But he just took it, took the high road, and let that towering manifestation of Crocker’s out-of-control id speak for itself. Yung never even retaliated, though he thought about it. His wife said, “There are some things to which people like ourselves do not care to stoop.”

You must feel like Nicholas Yung: tweeting through your life in a pure, happy-go-lucky way, only to see a wall of spite building up in this other person’s timeline, one hateful retweet at a time, to rebuke you. And like I said at the outset: How nasty that is; how immature. But why do you think these likes and retweets are hate-likes and hate-retweets, as opposed to supportive likes and supportive retweets? What would lead you to this conclusion? I can’t help but wonder if there’s something you’re not telling me—if you yourself worry there’s an arrogant, airheaded, obnoxious, or self-congratulatory tone to what you’re tweeting, the sort of attitude that typically elicits that kind of resentment online. Are you, for example, relentlessly issuing tidbits like “So lucky my baby sleeps for 12 hours each night!!!!!! Almost enough time for tantric sex with my amazing partner!” or “Just had lunch with Bon Jovi! #blessed”?

I’m not saying you are. I’m just wondering. Honestly. I don’t want to blame the victim. My point is, the victim of one kind of obnoxiousness can be a perpetrator of another. You ought to give that a hard think and figure out which side of this Spite Fence you’re actually standing on, before you poke your head over and start shouting.

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Author: Jon Mooallem. Culture

04.07.16

11:00 am

Christoph Niemann

Two stories. Try to hold them together in your mind.

The first involves a man named Muki Bácsi, at a Hungarian wedding in 1879. Muki was a drunk, apparently, but a beloved and awe-inspiring one. He was the region’s “champion drinkist,” according to the London Telegraph. And so, arriving at the wedding banquet, Muki found a tremendous 3-pint glass at his place and was told that, as the party proceeded through toast after toast, he was expected, each time, to suck this hulking receptacle dry, then fill it up again.

Muki sighed. “Lads, I am about to die,” he began. He was certain he was on the verge of a stroke, and the last thing he wanted was to flood his ailing innards with wine. And yet, Muki also knew he was at a gosh darn wedding and that weddings are specially charged, sacred days that temporarily reorganize the universe entirely around love and joyousness and mirth. Muki considered this, considered his glass, and pushed a great gust of air out of his weathered lungs. His lips formed that air into words: “So be it! A man can die but once!” And then Muki started to drink and drink. He drank until 2 in the morning. Then Muki asked to be carried to a bed, groaned once, and died. He was, the paper reported, “the merriest wedding guest of them all.”

The second story is shorter: In 1912, Elizabeth Lang shot a woman dead in Indiana. The case was open-and-shut, according to The New York Times. Elizabeth offered a clear confession. “She said I was ugly. She said I was old. I killed her for that, and I am not a bit sorry for it,” she told police. If it sounds extreme, it is—I’m not going to excuse it. And yet, monitor the slight shift in your own understanding and feelings when I reveal that this incident occurred at Elizabeth’s wedding.

It’s possible these stories aren’t entirely true—that they are, instead, the truth extruded through the melodramatic, yellowish journalistic conventions of their time. But even as fables, they offer some relevant lessons.

From Muki, we learn that the ideal wedding guest is submissive. Making the day a success requires that, to some degree, everyone subsume their needs and join with a larger collective spirit of conviviality. We guests arrive when we’re told to. We wear what we’re told to. If Abba comes on, we dance to Abba—even subpar Abba, like “Fernando.” We do these things because we care; it’s the Muki in us.

And from Elizabeth, we learn never to piss off the bride and groom. Even as all of us guests work to put our individual feelings aside for the day, we must understand that the bride and groom’s desires can become grotesquely elephantine and should be allowed to carry extra weight.

These are extreme examples, of course. But you are not being asked to festively drink yourself to death. You are being asked to use a hashtag on Instagram. And if you didn’t use the hashtag, and the bride murdered you for it, that would be nuts. So no, I can’t claim you are “required” to use the hashtag. But whatever your objections, using it seems like such a trivial sacrifice. The couple is merely asking for help gathering your photos into a larger virtual collection, easily viewed by them, their guests, and their would-have-been guests (excluded by head count costs, travel expenses, family feuds, and so on).

Hashtags can be dumb. I get it, I do. But this hashtag genuinely feels like a force for good. Like the wedding itself, it’s a mechanism for bringing people together. Why stand in its way?

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Author: Jon Mooallem. Culture

02.10.16

4:35 pm

Christoph Niemann

I’ve declared evenings and weekends a digital holiday. Should I set up an email autoreply to let people know?

Compassion. Sensitivity. Openness. Tolerance. I’d like to think that these are the core values of the Mr. Know-It-All column—the imperturbable foundations on which, every month, I try to build this tiny chapel of words. I’m not going to lie: This job is intimidating! Your questions come ricocheting into my inbox from WIRED HQ, sweeping toward me like a flurry of screeching bats from the mouth of a dark cave. And it’s up to me—only me—to lasso one of those unruly mammal-birds and tame it, transmute it into something more approachable, a gentle, sweetly singing canary whose song is Truth. Admittedly, sometimes it goes better than others. (Like that weird bat-and-canary bit—that one kind of got away from me.) But my feeling is, if I approach your questions with an open heart—if I try to locate, within that cryptic line or two you’ve submitted, some glint of shared humanity and try to understand you—then I cannot fail.

But I don’t understand you. I just don’t. I read your question on Friday evening, after a hectic week. I typically like to get an early jump on knowing-it-all, but I figured—just this once—I could mull over your question all weekend and bang out a thoughtful answer just before it was due. Then I thought to myself: “Why wouldn’t you set up an email autoreply?” I assumed I was missing something.

I fell asleep wondering what it might be—wondering about you. I slept very well. On Saturday I woke up to discover my car was dead in the driveway. I jump-started it. Then my sister-in-law visited. I made some soup. Sunday: took my kids on a hike, learned to use a chain saw, caught a few minutes of The Bourne Ultimatum, cooked a so-so chicken dish.

Now it’s Monday morning. The sun is rising; the column is due. I still don’t understand you. Do you have a justifiable reason to not set up an autoreply? I can’t imagine one. (How much of an inconvenience can it be? It’s automated!) I also wondered if, in a society where we all seem slavishly and often necessarily tied to our devices—where so many of us feel perpetually on call—you worry that your obstinate rejection of email every weekend will come off, to the rest of us, as a preposterous, selfish luxury. Does an automated email responder rub your privilege in our faces?

Yes, maybe a little. But guess what else it does: IT TELLS US YOU’RE NOT THERE. Imagine if I’d reached out to you for clarification on your question on Friday. Now imagine me waiting for a reply, consulting my phone as I continued to turn your question over in my mind. Imagine how that would have colored my weekend—impinged, just a bit, on my enjoyment of my family, my soup, my chainsawing, my Jason Bourne, my chicken. And, as you depleted my various joys with your unresponsiveness all weekend long, imagine how I might have come to resent you for it.

But I don’t resent you. Because, although you say you’ve declared your weekends a digital holiday, you’ve so far only declared it to me. And thanks for that. It saved me some hassle. Me and you are totally cool.

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Author: Jon Mooallem. Culture

02.09.16

4:40 pm

Christoph Niemann

How long should you wait before shutting down someone’s Facebook account after they die?

“This is for all you lovers out there.” That’s how it begins—one of the most existentially horrifying moments in American cinema.

I’m talking about the Enchantment Under the Sea Dance in Back to the Future, in which we see a temporally displaced Marty McFly onstage, sitting in with the band on “Earth Angel” with a guitar, while his teenage parents, George and Lorraine, move toward their first kiss.

This is it: the precise, excruciatingly brief moment in which the cosmos will offer up the possibility for them to fall in love—a doorway they can step through or not step through. But if they do, it’s a straight shot from here through the sinews of the spacetime continuum to marriage, and to Marty’s birth, and to all the circumstances of life that Marty had always mistaken for the one and only, inviolable reality. But he’s wising up now. While traveling through time, he’s learning that his life, like all of our lives, is only an exquisite and provisional fluke—a haphazard product of so many collisions and coincidences that were never guaranteed. Up on the stage, he’s about to be confronted with this truth in a deep and terrible way.

You know the scene, right? It turns on an obnoxious redhead who tells George to “scram,” then cuts in between him and Lorraine and sweeps her away. Slowly, a warped and nightmarish score rises over “Earth Angel.” Marty becomes disoriented, diminished. His strength—his selfhood—is draining out of him as, out on the dance floor, that insufferable ginger cackles and whips Lorraine around like a rag doll. He is dragging Lorraine farther and farther from George—and dragging our universe (or maybe all of this is proof of a multiverse?) farther from its capacity to produce Marty’s life, diverting the sacred headwaters of his personal history.

Marty’s compromised hands batter his guitar, making a discordant mess of “Earth Angel.” He raises one hand and watches it turn … translucent! His face is stupefied, powerless. Somehow Michael J. Fox—that cocky scion of 1980s precociousness—pulls it off: this look of violated innocence and panic, of a carefree boy suddenly thrown down and dying on the battlefield of time.

What is happening to Marty? Doc Brown has already explained the process: Marty is being “erased from existence.” Stop and think about those words for a second. They are horrifying. (A thrash metal band from Belfast called Scimitar even wrote an abrasive, ear-­pummeling song called “Erased from Existence,” inspired by this scene. It’s very hard to listen to.) But the worst part isn’t even that Marty himself is being erased. The true, piercing horror comes when he looks at the photograph slipped through the strings of his guitar: the one of his brother and sister and him standing against a low rock wall. Earlier in the film we’ve seen the images of his two siblings vanish from that photo, and now Marty’s image is fading too. This is what it means to be erased from existence. And this is what frightens me most: not just that Marty is vanishing but that all evidence of his life will vanish. No one will know who he was, because—here’s the thing—he wasn’t.

You ask how long you should wait before shutting down the Facebook page of a loved one who’s died. I ask why you’d ever want to delete it. Consider the ripple effects—the many ways their absence would be felt across that platform, on so many other ­people’s pages and their community’s collective, digital memory. Everything the deceased had said, not just on their own page but on others, would be gone. And so would everything people had said to them. They’d be instantaneously untagged from hundreds or even thousands of other people’s photos, exiled into some anonymous interloper status: a nameless human void.

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Source

https://www.wired.com/2017/03/kia-social-media-apps/