#on the bright side I can consider myself a jack of all trades; master of none

[baycitystygian]

promising myself that if I send in five job applications or more in the next 24 hours I can give myself a little treat (an 8x10 of paulie I saw on eBay that made me downright critically DEHYDRATED for that man)

[buddyfunnyspendtime]

ok i;m normal now new mao card so good.. 1 he is super duper pink here welcome back princess mao i missed u girl 2 the camera angle.. voiceline mentions being number 1 star and his talents and if u know mao's complication with both of those things from ex. autumn live it really makes u think that NO FUCKING WAY HAPPYELE IS ACTUALLY DOING SOMETHING WITH MAO'S CHARACTER

his complication with being number 1 is the fact as a kid this guy always wanted 2nd place as to not hurt anyone if he got 1st he's a guy who doesn't want conflict and is a general people pleaser so the fact it looks as though he's looking down on us means he truly is at the top

he's at the top but at the same time he's stretching a hand out.. he's accepting and actually competing for the top but at the same time he still stays true to the part of him that wants to help others also goes along with the fact that trickstar may've been at the top at some point but they were still approachable..

the star thing where mao considers himself as a mere flashlight compared to the bright stars that the other trickstar members are his whole inferiority complex that soon gets shaped into him using his low self esteem as a flashlight that although he may not shine as bright he can still be the person he wants to be by being able to be other peoples sides as their light.. however this time he WANTS to be at the top of the sky as a true genuine star just like the trickstar who showed him true wonder whom he wishes to be with

the chandelier in the bloomed shining down at him to show how bright he is now is so good i love it

mao thinks himself of as a jack of all trades master of none so he thinks he has no outstanding talent but regardless of his own interpretation of himself he's going to push through it in fact the amount of effort this guy is willing to put in no matter how much it takes or troublesome that's his talent it seems ordinary on paper to mao but really it's a part of what makes him so important to the people around him who see him so brightly that he just doesn't seem to see for himself

i was so worried that mao being one of the first 2 4piece auditioners would mean he was only setup for 4piece exposition and be pushed to the side again but now it feels as though it's an ending to mao's arc that was left started in autumn live but never received an ending

i really am excited for this story but at the same time i'm also holding myself back for probably the more obvious conclusion of nothing really happening or something big happening that really ends with nothing but if happyele can AT LEAST let this be a push for mao's character in the 2nd year of !! era i'll be a happy man this is what i've been waiting for For so so long

first mao card of 2nd year of !! era being a love letter to his character makes me really happy it feels as though i could die

[regrettablewritings]

Soulmate AU: The First Drawing You See From Your Soulmate is Tattooed on Your Skin

A detective having a tell would probably be considered inappropriate to most people. Detectives were supposed to read tells, not have them. But then again, Benoit had never been much for keeping up appearances. Besides, what was the harm in rubbing his thumb along his right wrist? It helped him focus; it helped him think.

Or at least, that was what he’d told himself. He wasn’t entirely lying, either, rather the larger whole of it all was more so that when he rubbed that spot on his skin, he felt calm. Composed. He liked to think that that was the feeling his soulmate had intended when they painted that image, whenever they made or would make it. Whatever it was. After all, it had plenty of blue in it.

He was pretty sure it was meant to be a pond or some kind of body of water; that might explain the blues and greens and maybe the bits of white that he could make out. And if he squinted his eyes a little, he could swear there were little flecks of gold. Goldfish, maybe? Honestly, he had no clue. Benoit wasn’t much for complaining or expressing a lack of gratefulness, but he couldn’t help but sometimes feel envious of those whose tattoos covered a larger part of their body. Not a massive amount, but at least just enough to be able to tell precisely what the heck their soulmate’s image was trying to portray. Clearly, the image was larger than what that patch of his skin could afford, and honest to God, he’d spent a good part of his life trying to make out what it was!

(The embarrassment of it all, he would sometimes muse deprecatingly: That the acclaimed “Last of the Gentlemen Sleuths” could solve the most absurd cases in the country, yet had spent most of his natural-born life completely stumped by what might as well have counted as a body part!)

And yet, Benoit could never stay frustrated about it; not when his thumb gently grazed against the image, imagining the smoothness of his skin ebbing into the aquatic swirls of the proposed water. But just for extra precaution, he saw no harm in distracting himself.

That afternoon’s distraction? A quick skim of the local paper, accompanied by a mug of hot tea. He tried not to think of how such a method revealed his age, instead snapping the paper open to a page discussing the local goings-on. It was the usual sort of content: The community theater’s spring production was seeking house crew members, a mom and pop-style restaurant was having an anniversary special . . . It was the same sort of thing Benoit had grown used to expecting.

But what his pale blue eyes landed on next didn’t make the rest pale by comparison -- it downright washed all else from existence: An art show.

Benoit considered himself a well-rounded person, but it was more so in an almost tongue in cheek sort of manner: As a detective, it was his job to be appropriately versed in an assortment of fields. However, a jack of all trades was never truly a master of none. Benoit’s experiences with art theft and forgeries had lent him a hand in only about as much observation as was necessary for the respective occurrences.

But . . . he knew those swirls. He knew that blue, those greens, that white -- he recognized how the gold was patterned! Sure, the cheap ink job of a colored newspaper picture might have dulled the quality ever so slightly but there was no mistake to be made: That painting was his. No . . . It was theirs!

You tried to make calming breaths without making your anxiety obvious. A nervous but otherwise acceptable smile twitched into place, fooling the guests as they wandered about the gallery. Or, at least, you certainly hoped it was fooling them; but it was probably all to be outdone by the fact that you’d been nursing the same champagne flute for the last half-hour.

Is this what “making it” feels like? you wondered. Because if it was . . . you weren’t too fond of it. You felt bad for not relishing this opportunity; the art world was highly competitive, and you were more than blessed to have had the chance to not only display your work in a showroom, but to have said room be dedicated entirely to your pieces. But in that blessing was also a curse: The curse of criticism, of weary eyes, of people both waiting to pounce on you with ribbings of how you lack the magnanimity of the classics or the free thinking of the contemporaries --

Shitshitshitsmile! You did as you were told -- both by your brain, and by your manager earlier when they walked you through how you were to compose yourself through this entire ordeal. Just smile, enunciate when spoken to, and let the potential schmoozing flow and oh god, that Karen-looking lady who definitely owns a house in Martha’s Vineyard for when she wants to get away from her husband for a day totally hated that piece you’d spent months working on, didn’t she?!

The thought made your stomach twist, your already awkward smile along with it. You inhaled sharply. You had to find something to distract yourself with. 

You turned and faced the painting nearest to you. Some might call it vanity, but you were actually quite pleased with this particular piece. That, and its blueness gave you a sense of . . . serenity. You imagined the ripples washing over you and into you, the scent and sound of the painted environment gently caressing your nose and drowning out both the stench of perfume and pretentious chattering . . . And also, apparently, the sound of approaching footsteps.

You hadn’t realized anyone had joined your side until the rumble of a southern baritone carded through the water.

“It’s gorgeous. Isn’t it?”

You hadn’t meant to jump and appear so clumsy.

“Oh, sh -- ” You cut yourself short as you eyed the droplets of spilled, room temperature champagne. If your manager found out that you had cussed around a potential buyer, they would’ve mounted your head on the wall. Thankfully, however, the stranger didn’t appear at all fazed. If anything, the chuckle he responded with sounded genuinely amused.

“Oh, my dear girl, I’m terribly sorry!” he insisted, holding up his left hand. “I didn’t mean to scare you; I can imagine most anyone would be mighty transfixed over a piece like this.”

You gulped as you looked up at your unintentional scarer. His eyes were the same blue as the one that brought you calm just moments earlier, yet they had the almost opposite effect to you now. As you looked into them, you didn’t feel calm; not necessarily: Instead, you felt your heart beginning to ripple the pattern of the painting, your cheeks burning as bright as the gold swirling amongst the little waves. And yet you found yourself transfixed by them, only offered freedom when the older gentleman offered you a hint of a smile. A warm one.

Crap! Uh -- Answer his question! Think of something to say! your mind scrambled.

“Uh . . .” you stammered. The only way to save what atoms of confidence you still had left was to turn your eyes back to the painting. “I -- I should hope so.” Smooth. You tried to remember your calming breaths. You heard the man hum, shifting his position ever so slightly in your peripheral.

“What can you tell me about it?” he asked, revealing just how close to you he truly was. You could feel the warmth of his person and the richness of his voice vibrating into you. Or perhaps it was butterflies? Maybe both? Well, whatever it was, it almost made you stumble over your words. You’d spent the entire evening up to that point rehearsing stories of your inspirations, recounting whatever education you had to people who probably didn’t give a crap.

But this instance was different: Maybe it was foolishness sourced from a sudden and sophomoric attraction, but you almost wanted to believe that perhaps this man genuinely cared. That he was genuinely interested in what you as the actual artist had to say and not you as some painting mannequin made to recite lines over and over.

The excitement of such a possibility broke through your nerves . . . and, unfortunately, right out of your mouth.

“I just really wanted to paint a mermaid in a mall coin fountain,” you admitted. You wanted to kick yourself. Up until that point, you’d been rather proud of your nifty little idea. But when you said it out loud, you sounded ridiculous! You could barely hide the reactionary wince, much less how your breathing hitched and hiccuped with nervousness. Just as soon as it had come, the hope that perhaps this man was different disappeared, leaving you awaiting his ridicule.

A ridicule that never came. Instead, there was quiet between the both of you. Perhaps he was at a loss for words?

“Mm,” he hummed, making you tense with expectation. You glanced at him just enough to see him nod, his blue eyes still focused on the canvas before him. “Go on . . .”

You blinked. Was he . . . for real?

“I . . . What more is there to say?” you wondered. The entire night, nobody had really asked for more on your part. They usually just took whatever purple prose you gave them and left it at that. Your initial assumption was right after all: This gentleman was cut from a different cloth from the lot.

He pursed his lips and shrugged. “What inspired this?”

“Oh, uh . . . Well . . .” Was it worth telling him? Aw, hell: you’d already made a bit of a fool of yourself being honest, so what harm was there in doing it some more? “I did it because I never saw anything about a mermaid that lived in a mall fountain, collecting the coins people toss in there.”

You didn’t even have a chance to worry about his criticism before the man’s features broke into a smile. It wasn’t like the others’ more courteous grins; this one reached his eyes, making their icy coolness warm and welcoming. You hated the cheesiness of it all, but for a very split second you wished that you could be a mermaid in them.

He chuckled once again. “Can’t say that I’ve ever seen anything concerning a coin-hoarding mermaid myself, let alone a professional art piece.” It was small, but the assurance made you offer your own smile.

“Well . . . But then maybe I have . . .” At that, your heart dropped. There it was: The anticipated criticism. He thought you were a hack after all: Uninspired, boorish, unskilled, whatever word there was to describe a person who didn’t know how to use a fan brush properly if any.

The wound stung as one so sudden should: Heavily and down to your core. You wanted the floor to open up and eat you whole. Or better yet: You wanted to climb into your apparently uninspired painting and drown in the mall fountain. But none of those could be an option, and neither was the possibility of hiding in the bathroom or an empty corridor. Instead, you had to put on a brave face and do your best to get through the moment.

“Oh?” you uttered. Your throat pained from the threat of anxiety. “Where do you suppose? I’ll admit, I’m not much into contemporary art so I don’t know the what’s what of what if you catch my drift.” You tried to weakly smile at your sad attempt for a joke. God, this so wasn’t what “making it” felt like.

But the man didn’t offer a courteous hint of laughter. Nor did he offer you a verbal response. Instead, he turned to face you. You did the same, even though you really didn’t want to. But it was the polite and expected thing to do when being confronted. Damn politeness and courteousness.

You weren’t sure how to respond when the man began to make work of his right sleeve, unbuttoning the cuff and beginning to roll the rest of it up. Your paranoia was unfortunately the first to respond due to your preexisting discomfort of the entire ordeal of an evening. You were just about prepared to scream, yelp, make any kind of distressed call -- only for it to trickle out into a gasp. An amazed exhale. The image the man presented to you on his wrist was small. Clearly, for it to be recognized for what it was, it needed a larger stretch of skin to belong to. But you knew what it was: You knew those swirls, the placements of those flecks of gold, those blues and greens surrounded by white.

For the umpteenth time that evening, your breathing changed. Only, you were pretty positive that none of your deep breathing would be necessary this time around; you would be more than happy to look at your painting on your soulmate’s skin for the rest of the night.

Epilogue:

“Mr. Blanc, please,” you insisted. “You’ve grown up with that thing on your arm, surely you’re bored with it by now. You can have your pick of the gallery. Hell, I’ll even make you something on request!”

Pickings hadn’t become slim, but the night had ended surprisingly successful. Well, surprising to you: You hadn’t expected anyone to buy anything of yours that evening, let alone six. You supposed that perhaps they just wanted to participate in the elitism brought on by owning newcomer art. Benoit, however, insisted that the buyers simply had functioning eyes. What a sweet-talker your soulmate was.

You watched as he shook his head stubbornly, eyes still fixated on the painting that adorned his wrist. He’d seen all the other remaining paintings, and even the ones that wound up selling by evening’s end. They were all gorgeous, he insisted, but . . .

“Benoit, if you will, Ms. (Y/N),” he corrected, apparently missing the irony. He gestured insistently at the composition. “And no. I . . . I truly would be quite satisfied with this one.” He heard you raspberry in defeat as you made your way back to his side, folding your arms in exasperation. 

“Seriously, though,” you sighed. “Is a painting of a mermaid dwelling in, like, a fountain you can find nearby an Auntie Anne’s really . . .” You waved a hand as if searching for the right word. “. . . Befitting? Of a detective’s abode? I was thinking more of a bucolic piece or like a portrait of some kind or . . .” You trailed off, only to be met with an amused huff.

“Some detective I am,” Benoit muttered. He broke his gaze back to you and placed his hands on his hips. “Took me well over a damn decade or two to learn what it even was. And only because you told me!”

[designer-dad]

Peak Design Everyday Backpack - My history with EDC bags.

I have a problem.

I like bags. 

Like, a lot.

It’s more complicated than that though. I also hate bags.

A lot.

Ok, I’ll explain. As an Industrial Designer, I tend to pick apart products a lot. Especially ones that I purchase. Especially especially ones that I use A LOT. And even more so ones that I rely on for keeping part of my sanity. I define those items as ones that I use consistently and repetitively, in more or less the same way over and over. I am a creature of habit. Very strong, often unusual or quirky habit. Just ask my wife. And I need those specific items to fit/mold my habits in a way that is pleasing, smooth, and doesn’t mess with my mojo.

Enter my bag dilemma. 

I first remember having this issue around when I entered college and purchased my first car - a ‘92 fire-engine red Jeep Cherokee Limited. I needed a backpack at the time, and purchased some heavy duty Jeep branded backpack from their official site. It was my first considered bag purchase. The bag was a workhorse; strong, heavy duty, virtually un-breakable, waterproof, and pretty comfortable. And bright blue. It featured some basic front pocket organization, a slimmer front pocket for the little quick items, and otherwise was just a gaping hole of storage, with 2 equally massive side pockets. I loved this thing. Still do, but I also started to hate it, at least for my EDC bag. It was too big, could rarely fit under an airplane seat, and lacked main pocket organization (my biggest issue with bags in general; more on that later). I learned to appreciate it for what it was (a cavernous rugged backpack), and still use it for that purpose, but needed a new EDC bag.

Thanks to some Nissan test-drive promo, and the fact that they ran out of free watches, I got a random Kenneth Cole fabric messenger bag. I wasn’t super enthused at first, but this turned out to be a pretty great bag. And I found the general layout of a messenger bag to be preferable as an EDC, in that while the main opening can still be cavernous, the “landscape” orientation helped me dig through the crap to find what I wanted, and by nature opened up more so I could see inside. It also allowed me to swing it around and access said cavern without removing the bag. It also offered a simple but unique combination of organization pockets that just clicked with me.

But as college progressed, and technology with it, I needed to start carrying a laptop daily (and a behemoth one at that; stupid design school requirements), and this didn’t do the trick. So I did a stint with a Targus (yes, regrettable) giant 17″ widescreen messenger bag I found at Marshall’s that carried more like a briefcase, until my new in-laws bought me a fantastic upgrade: a Timbuk2 Outttawhack convertible bag. This thing was/is SO cool. Carries like a messenger, briefcase, or backpack with tuck-away backpack straps. Super unique, thought out, and still injects designer-endorphins into my brain when I use it. And it fit my beast of a laptop. 

But alas, as is the case with many 3-in-1 products, it’s a jack of all trades but master of none. It was neither comfortable as a backpack nor messenger. The backpack straps were on a kind of funky angle too. It lacked a water bottle pocket (apparently I found out how much I cared about this; I had to make a custom one). But the organization was pretty solid. Especially for a Timbuk2 bag (more on that next). But it did feature an issue I’ve found with Timbuk2 bags. They are designed for right-handed carry. I am a righty, but for some reason I do 2 things lefty; ride a skateboard and wear a messenger, the latter of which makes them annoying for me.

But I was kinda poor at the time, and still liked how cool this bag was, and it fit my massive laptop, so I trudged on for a couple years making do with this while part of my brain longed to go back to my trusty Kenneth Cole.

Graduation came, as did the start of my first design job, and I no longer needed to carry a laptop daily anymore, so back to the Kenneth Cole I went. And I was happy.

And on to my next design gig too. And the next one. The trusty Kenneth Cole went with me. And when the strap pad ripped, I bought a great Timbuk2 replacement pad. 

Enter another issue with my being a designer; boredom. Yes, this is often at odds with my being adverse to change and my strong habits. I know. It’s a problem. Add to that a desire to find a product a little better, and my eyes started to stray from trusty KC. 

Starting another design gig, I decided to “reward” myself with a new bag. I had a budget, around $100-$150, and at this point required something that could give my KC bag a run for its money, and conquer one issue I had never been able to resolve with my KC bag: travel.

While I loved my KC bag for EDC, it just did not cut it for travel. Messengers are uncomfortable to wear for long hauls of heavy loads (compared to backpacks), and it just didn’t have the gear space. Especially since I am always traveling with a basic staple of Orthodox Judaism: my Phylacteries and prayer shawl. These are used during morning prayers (which I often need to recite en route) and are pricey, so they stay in carry-on luggage. This parcel is about the size of an airplane pillow and blanket bundled together, and my travel bag needs to hold it in addition to regular travel basics (which always includes some degree of camera gear). 

I also simply hated the process of transferring everything from my EDC to travel bag and back again.

So I was now searching for a bag that could carry a bit more than what most people would need during travel, but would still not be too large as an EDC bag.

 After about a month of research, and ordering about 15 bags form Amazon to try (yay free returns), I landed on my Timbuk2 Command 2.0. This was a very good bag, and I used it mostly happily for close to 5 years for both EDC and most travel, but was never fully satisfied. It had a few very specific problems that got me eventually hunting for a new EDC bag during my next job transition (especially when I learned the new gig would require significant travel with a hefty laptop):

1) Organization. Timbuk2 generally uses the inside of the main compartment for pens and small organization. I hate this. I want this kept separate so pulling out a sweatshirt from the main pocket won’t send all my pens flying out on the floor of terminal B at O’Hare.

2) Made for a righty. The side access napoleon pocket, which I like in theory, is only easily accessible for right-handed carry style. Same with the water bottle pocket. It’s a small quirk, but awfully annoying when present numerous times every day for YEARS. 

3) Not quite the right size. This could handle some travel, but nothing major, nothing with a DSLR kit, and still hurt like any messenger with weight or time. And a big laptop was still not an option. The trusty Jeep bag was still my main travel buddy.

There was lots to like about this bag. Quality was solid, the color was bright red, TSA laptop pocket (for a medium laptop), extendable luggage handle pass-through, and some nice pockets, but overall fell short of what I needed.  

Add another layer of complexity to this tote conundrum: my DSLR.

I’ve mentioned this thing a few times already, and for good reason. It really messes with what kind of bag you can/want to carry. In most instances, it feels like you need to make a choice; camera first or carry first. Bags I’ve been through are either primarily camera focused, but can also carry ordinary stuff along with it, or it’s a regular bag, and you’re on your own for how to fit in camera gear.

Problem is, I like to bring my camera with me when I go places. But I’m also picky about my bag. These don’t marry well. My first route to address this was to bring a dedicated camera bag with me when I traveled. First mistake was this random bag I bought from Deviant Art when they phased out selling gear.

It seemed like a good idea at the time.

It’s a shoebox with camera storage inserts and a sling strap. It’s not comfortable. It’s not practical. NEXT.

For the next purchase, I did some digging, and put some thought into it. I got this Lowerpro sling bag, and was really happy with my purchase at first. It was smaller, understated, didn’t scream “camera here!”, and could carry some basic daily essentials along with my basic camera kit. But the killer here was the whole lefty-thing again. The bag is made strictly for right-handed style carry, and I could not get used to it. Add to that the annoyance of having to travel with an extra bag just for camera gear, and I outgrew this bag after just 2 trips.

I ultimately settled on the Timbuk2 Snoop Camera Insert and would try to fit this in whatever bag I traveled with. Yeah, not any easier than it sounds. 

So begins my search for my ultimate bag. I started a new job, with roughly monthly domestic travel, plus 1-2 international trips a year between work and personal, and I now needed to carry a semi-hefty laptop on occasion for either working remotely or traveling with. So I was looking for a bag that would satisfy all of the below:

1) Masterful Organization, especially in the main “big” pocket. Handful of writing instruments, mini Moleskin, battery backup, charging cables, multi-tools, knives, spork, water bottle, giant headphones, lunch, some occasional documents, some quick access pockets, and adaptability to also hold my laptop, more charging cables, reading material, and more robust pack of sketch tools, camera gear, and maybe more. Most importantly, give me some control of how I put stuff in that big main compartment. 

2) DSLR/Camera carry. I often travel with my DSLR. Not always, but often. And it can make choosing a bag for a trip very complicated. Will I be able to access the camera quickly? Will it be secure and protected? It also adds a level of complexity to my travel bag being the daily carry upon my arrival. On that note...

3) Travel buddy/EDC buddy. I want this bad to make the ultimate transition. Be my daily companion, and my travel hauler. Comfortable for the commute or a hike. And storage that can work and transform smoothly for both. Eliminate the need for another bag, and remove the extra hassle of transferring from bag to bag when traveling.

4) Backpack carry. I’d be taking the train for this job, which involves a couple miles of walking a day. Add that to the monthly trips through airports and messengers were out of the question here. But give me options to tote this thing with side handles and such.

5) Water bottle carry. Not wimpy either. I want this on both sides, and I want a pocket big enough to water a large man.

6) Laptop carry. My work laptop is known as a “mobile workstation.” It’s a 15″, but not like a 15″ Macbook. It’s a beast. It’s thick. It’s heavy. And it needs to fit in this bag.

7) Svelte, but spacious. I need a bag that looks good, and can be somewhat compacted when I don’t need it to be massive. I’m a big dude, so my frame can work with a larger bag, but I also don’t wanna knock out people standing around me on the train. On the other hand, if I need to load this with my DSLR kit, prayer accouterments, laptop, and travel goodies, I need this to haul it all, and still work as my daily carry when I get to where I’m going. 

6) Be awesome. At this point in my career, I like my accessories to be generally awesome, and be long-term. Unique. Great stories. Fantastic products. This bag will need to bring the cool factor up. And continue making me happy for years, so that I don’t have to go through this process again for a while.

So I embarked on what ended up being a 6 month discovery process of bags. Which I enjoyed. But which also stressed me out. And ultimately led me to my Peak Design Everyday Backpack 30L in Charcoal. To be continued...

[josephlrushing]

JBL Pulse 4 Review: A Mesmerizing Light Show Built into an Excellent Portable Speaker

It would be easy to discount a portable speaker that comes with a built-in light show as a jack of all trades and a master of none, but in the case of the JBL Pulse 4, doing so would be a huge mistake. The Pulse 4 delivers 360º sound and an LED light show that can both soothe or enliven.

Building on the success of prior Pulse models, the Pulse 4 now features a larger and more vibrant LED show with up to 12 hours of battery life (depending on light brightness and volume), and it’s waterproof up to 3-feet deep for 30 minutes (IPX7) so you can confidently use it in the backyard or by the pool.

Included in the package are the Pulse 4 portable speaker, a USB Type-A to Type-C charging cable, a quick start guide, a safety sheet, and a warranty card.

The JBL Pulse 4 measures approximately 8.2″ tall by 3.10″ wide at the base, and it weighs 2 pounds 13 ounces, so it has a nice heft. Available in either black or white, I was sent the black version.

The exterior is largely composed of a smoky black plastic exterior sleeve with hard plastic endcaps. On the front center bottom, there is a red and white JBL badge. At the top center front, there are buttons for Volume Down, Play/Pause, and Volume Up. If you press and hold the Play/Pause button, the speaker will skip to the next song.

On the right side, you’ll find the Power button and a Bluetooth connection button.

On the left side, there is a Party Boost button, which allows you to connect a second Party Boost-compatible speaker for stereo sound or you can use it connect more than 100 Party Boost-compatible speakers for a huge synchronized sound. There is also a light show button that will cycle you through five preset light shows; pressing and holding the button for a few seconds will turn off the lights if you don’t want them.

On the back, there is a USB Type-C charging port and above it …

… is an LED strip that glows to show the remaining battery life. It’s not as precise a battery indicator as five individual LEDs would be, but it works.

On the bottom of the Pulse 4, there is a passive radiator; grooves formed in the hard plastic bottom keep the passive radiator from sitting flat on any surface and getting stifled. This design allows the speaker to put out some decent bass; the speaker is surprisingly powerful and will rattle things sitting on a table.

At the top, there is a single 2.25″ driver. The JBL Pulse 4 sounds great when it is oriented so that the passive radiator is on the bottom and the driver is on the top. The Pulse 4’s sound gets tinny and weird if the driver is on the bottom or lying on its side.

Without turning on the Pulse 4, you can see a white shrouded column in the center of the speaker’s body; it looks interesting.

I was curious about what was inside the Pulse 4 but unwilling to tear mine apart to look. I enjoyed watching this teardown video; you might enjoy it, too.

When the Pulse 4 is turned on, the white center column begins to glow and (yes) pulse with the music; you can change the colors and styles of the light show by pressing the light button. The sound produced by the Pulse 4 is surprisingly loud and clear — especially when you consider that it is all coming from that single 2.25″ driver and small-ish passive radiator. The Pulse 4 can easily fill your room with sound while giving you and undulating light show, and it also works very well when sitting outdoors on a picnic table.

You don’t need the JBL Connect app to use the speaker, but if you download it new features and conveniences are unlocked.

The remaining battery life is displayed.

Opening the Light Show tab lets you select and customize each of the five light shows. The option of taking a photo of your outfit or room’s decor is available for a customized light show color.

The Party button in the app opens Party Mode which walks you through connecting additional speakers for a huge sound.

The Stereo button in the app walks you through the steps to connect a second speaker for true stereo sound.

The fact that the JBL Pulse 4 puts out such impressive sound while delivering a lava lamp-esque light show is great on its own, but I love that the speaker is rugged enough to bring along with you on your outside adventures without worrying.

While some might fault the speaker for not having a built-in speakerphone function or an aux-In port, I’m giving it a pass. Whether the Pulse 4 is sitting on a shelf in your house, operating as a fixed speaker with a built-in light show, or you are throwing it in a tote to use at the beach, I can’t see myself or anyone else looking at it and expecting it to work as a speakerphone. As for no aux-in port, I’m guessing that has something to with the fact that every single phone made anymore has Bluetooth and that’s generally what people are streaming their music from.

The Pulse 4 puts on a mesmerizing 360º light show, and it produces that great JBL sound that I love. At $249.95, the price may seem a little steep compared to similarly-sized portable speakers that don’t have an LED light show, but if you want a speaker that is as pleasurable to watch as it is to listen to, you won’t be disappointed with the JBL Pulse 4.

The JBL Pulse 4 retails for $249.95, and it is available directly from the manufacturer as well as from other retailers including Amazon [affiliate link].

Source: Manufacturer supplied review sample

What I Like: 130 LEDs make the Pulse 4’s visuals smooth and bright; You can turn off the light show by pressing and holding the light button for a couple of seconds; 7260Mah Li-ion battery for up to 12 hours of lights and sound; Sound produced is very clear with decent bass; IPx7 waterproof so you can feel free to bring it along!

What Needs Improvement: Some might miss the Aux-in; Can’t use as a speakerphone

from Joseph Rushing https://geardiary.com/2019/10/13/jbl-pulse-4-review/

[jotawakening-blog]

10 Septober, 5A 169: Exploring Menaphos

I wake up from a light sleep at the diplomatic residence in the Merchants’ District at the crack of morning, just as soon as it’s bright enough outside to make my way through the city’s slums without drawing attention to myself via artificial lighting.  My plan is to go down into the catacombs beneath the city, where the Jack of Spades’ hideout is most likely to be, and catch him by surprise if at all possible.  Well, I hope this works…

I go down the narrow flight of stairs indicated to me by Batal yesterday.  The stairs soon broaden, and take me to a central chamber with four entrances, all identical and one on each side, and a deep well in the middle flanked by the statues of the four lesser gods in the Menaphite pantheon.  And… the Jack of Spades is there, clear as day, standing in his robes by the well!  I draw my crossbow and move in to apprehend him.  I call on him to surrender, or else we settle this by force of arms, at which the Jack merely scoffs and asks me “Is that any way to treat a friend?”

I growl at the Jack to cut it with the psychological games and let him know he’s no friend of mine but a common thief.  This really gets the Jack’s goat: he exclaims that he is not ordinary but one of a kind… and throws off his hood, revealing himself to be Ozan!  Aha— so he actually was a friend!  My bad!  I bid him explain.  First of all, how did he get into Menaphos?  The city seemed impregnable like a fortress, and I know I only got in by invitation!  Ozan explains that it took a clever disguise and some humiliation involving a snake charmer’s flute.  As for what he’s doing here, that much is obvious: he’s tracking down the Kharid-Ib.  He tells me Apep and Heru, Lady Keli’s two lackeys, weren’t just random Menaphites; they were high up in the city hierarchy.  So he’s been spending his time here gathering information, and what he’s found suggests that Amascut is in the city right now!  Well, not inside the actual city, but underneath it: there have been whispers of workers and soldiers being led into the Great Pyramid and not coming back out.  Some investigating has revealed that the captives are being used to dig up old tombs, for a purpose as yet unknown.  (And, yes, ‘captives’ is the right word: most of them are operating under mind control, a sure sign of Amascut’s presence!)  However, there is still much Ozan does not know, and it will take some doing to get more leads and figure out a course of action.

Okay, that makes sense.  One last question: why steal the items?  Ozan explains that his thefts were absolutely intentional, calculated to get my attention and make me rub shoulders with some of the figures at the heart of the corruption in Menaphos.  Grand Vizier Ehsan, for instance, covertly trades on lies and gossip, and keeps a record of the dirt she has on everyone who’s anyone in the city.  Her ascent to power has been largely based on extortion.  Ozan asks me to warn Grand Vizier Hassan about her, lest he stumble into negotiating a badly unbalanced treaty.  ‘Admiral’ Wadud, for his part, is little more than a greedy thug, with a monopoly on the city’s crime.  He gained his so-called rank by double-crossing the Skulls (seemingly a broader organisation than just the Draynor branch, and into piracy around these parts) and stealing a portion of their fleet for himself.  (Incidentally, Khnum has proven cooperative of late in providing information to Ozan about the Skulls: perhaps he will deliver some helpful intel against Wadud in time).

Ozan continues, moving on to Commander Akhomet, who used to be a great soldier before the Pharaoh ordered the gates closed, at which point she became little more than a lackey and a bully.  As for Batal, his case is the saddest: he was once a fiery campaigner for the rights of the working classes, but his downfall came when he tried to organise a protest against the abductions of labourers for the Great Pyramid project.  The Pharaoh ordered his hands cut off in retribution (how did I not notice that?!) and since then he’s been a broken man and willing collaborator with the regime.

Well, that about covers my questions.  I ask Ozan what he wants me to do with him: should I turn him in, and trust in his ability to make a dashing escape?  Ozan, however, tells me that it’s best we separated, and that I start courting the influence of the very same disreputable figures who run the various parts of the city.  Okay, I wasn’t expecting that, so I let Ozan explain, and his reasoning seems sound.  The stronger my ties with the grandees, the less likely it is that Hassan and I will have our right to visit Menaphos revoked.  In addition, getting on the locals’ good side could help drive a wedge between them and the Pharaoh’s increasingly reviled regime, and that can only be a good thing.  To get me started on this task, Ozan hands me the various things he stole from the grandees, and tells me to return them to their more-or-less rightful owners.  Once I’ve done that, and warned Hassan about Ehsan’s duplicitous ways, I should come back to him and work toward figuring out a plan.

I guess that means it’s time I became familiar with this sprawling city.  I go back out the way I came and make the workers’ district my first stop.  The first person I talk to there is actually Batal, whom I intercept walking by the entrance to the tombs.  And, now that Ozan mentions it, his hands really have been replaced with hooks!  Poor guy…  Anyway, Batal is grateful when I hand him his purse back, and tells me he looks forward to actually eating tonight.  Damn, I feel for the people of Menaphos.

I start my tour of the workers’ district in earnest from the coastline.  For whatever reason, though, you can see ruined buildings out quite some ways into the sea that look like they once formed part of the slums.  Kind of makes you wonder how they ended up submerged!  Anyway, the area isn’t very crowded: all it contains, other than a few unattended tents, is a small makeshift altar and a local practising his dance moves.

I then move inland, into the warren of huts and alleys that comprise the slums.  The locals seem to be quite aggrieved by the Pharaoh’s regime: they tell me half-whispered stories of corruption at all levels of the system, of working all day, every day without breaks and still not having enough to live on, and persistent crime that the guards aren’t willing to check.  In fact, the only things the guards— and there are many of them here— seem to be interested in is keeping the workers in the open-pit quarry from slacking off!  Sickening.

The whole workers’ district is grindingly poor, with only a few basic trades such as blacksmithing and pottery represented.  The merchants’ district, by contrast, is basically a different world, full of sophisticated trades and populated by folks who appear quite content with their lot and mainly concerned at getting an edge over their competitors through the bureaucracy.  I make my first stop in the district the diplomatic lodgings, where I return the ‘tax’ ledger to Ehsan, and use the opportunity while she looks through it to make sure nothing is missing to whisper a warning about Ehsan to Hassan.  Unfortunately, Hassan is not very willing to believe his ears when I tell him about Ehsan’s true colours, and quite loud about it to boot, and Ehsan overhears.  Gracefully, she assures Hassan that there is nothing suspicious in her actions besides what the troubled times necessitate.  Sadly, he seems to believe her, hook, line and sinker.  Oh dear, that’s definitely something that Ozan shall have to worry about.

Since I can’t prevail on Hassan that he’s being a fool, I exit in a controlled huff and hit the market, which is glittering with goods of all kinds, from gems to fish and beyond.  Standing off to one side is a very curious sight: a creature that looks like a hybrid between a human and a camel.  Sadly, it appears too busy with… whatever its business is… to talk to me, or even much notice me gawking at it.  North of the market, there are a few larger shops, and outside one of them, I run into a young woman named Pia who tells me she’s considering giving up being a merchant and becoming a slayer master.  I agree to help her practise and tell her to give me a slayer assignment.  ‘Fine,’ she tells me, ‘Go kill 24 Scabarites!’  Um, that’s not a name of a monster I’ve encountered before, so I ask her where I can find these creatures.  ‘In the Scabarite hive, of course!’ she says, as though that would have been obvious.  I conclude she’s quite likely pulling my leg and move on to the shops.

These, it turns out, also contain a great diversity of wares, going beyond what you would find even in great market centres such as Varrock.  For one, there’s a shoe store with the largest selection I’ve ever seen, where I spend more time than I care to admit.  Then there’s a shop that claims to sell spirit lamps— and not just regular lamps, but ones that can be used four times before they are used up!  The seller tells me the tale of how he won the secret of making them from a wizard in the Eastern Lands that he beat in a game of Runeversi, and I believe him… that is, up to the point where I actually inspect one of his lamps, and it looks to be just an ordinary clay lamp with a nice paint job, nothing magical about it.  So I challenge the stall keeper to prove to me that his lamps are all they’re cracked up to be, at which point he shoos me away.  Pah, what a cheat!

I leave the guy’s stall with a grimace and hit up the shop behind him, which is focussed on the spiritual arts and even holds a full-fledged summoning obelisk!  Unfortunately, the shopkeeper is rather low on shards and other summoning-related lairs, to the point where he asks me whether I come bearing manuscripts and supplies from the ‘greener lands’. (Taverley, perhaps?)  Anyway, since I’m not buying and he’s not selling, I move on toward the river, which seems to attract poets and entertainers making the most of the city’s stifling atmosphere.  Nearby, there’s a baker’s stall and the city’s largest general store, which is stocked with the usual necessities, as well as a local speciality: blue-and-gold feathers known as talismans of Ma’at.  They’re supposed to be used for cleansing corruption from the spirit, and while that’s not something I need right now and the feathers are mighty expensive, I buy one regardless: you never know when they may come of use.  In fact, having one may have protected me from that whole Icthlarin fiasco in Sophanem, now that I think about it!  It never hurts to be protected, the point is.

South of the market proper, I find a lone stall selling toys and, more importantly, the city bank.  While the bankers there seem to have arrangements not only with the Bank of Gielinor but with the Grand Exchange as well.  (Hardly surprising that the Pharaoh would be interested in maintaining a strong flow of trade despite the physical isolation of the city!)  Sadly, the staff there demand that I show a token of approval from the Grand Vizier before they’ll let me use the facilities… and after ratting on her, I’m not sure she’ll give me that.  But we’ll see.  Opposite the bank, meanwhile, I glimpse from afar the Palace guard— a much more flashy group than regular city guards— arresting someone for an unknown transgression!  I try to get closer and find out more, but the guards warn me not to make a scene, so I reluctantly, with Ozan’s warning not to compromise the broader mission in mind, move on across the central plaza toward the royal palace, where Akhomet tends to spend her time.  Unsurprisingly, not many citizens linger directly under the gaze of the pharaoh and the many guards, but one person catches my attention: a woman with a butterfly net who’s looking for implings, but confesses not to have had much luck in that regard, recently.

The Imperial District, now that I’ve got a chance to take a proper look at it, is even more beautiful than it first seemed, made up as it is of expansive parkland, acadia trees and palms that provide shade, and pools of flowing water.  I make a beeline for Akhomet and return her dagger to her, adding that the Jack of Spades unfortunately remains at large.  She’s not too displeased at this news, though, and in fact tells me to check back with her later, as she might have some work for me.  Okay, much as I like to avoid dealing with treacherous snakes, I feel Ozan is right on this one and I should take her up on the offer.

For now, though, I ask her a favour that I’m pretty sure will get shot down: would she let me enter the palace, just so I can have a quick look around?  To my surprise, she tells me to go on ahead— as a diplomat, I do have that privilege— and so I let a guard usher me through the grand gates and into the pyramid.

The guard leads me straight into the monument’s heart, a hall of marble as pure as snow and as noble as an icyene.  The Pharaoh’s throne stands on a high dais on the far side of the room, with the ruler upon it.  Next to him is that utter snake Ambassador Jabari, slipping poison into his ear.  There is every air of decadence in the decor— indeed, the ground below the Pharaoh’s throne is heaped with mountains of gold coins five metres high.  So much gold, and all on display!  There must be several billion gold pieces’ worth in that pile!  And yet, for all that, the Pharaoh exudes an air of preternatural wisdom, and, somehow, that is the part of the whole set-up that worries me most.

Unfortunately, an audience with the Pharaoh is out of the question: his schedule is already filled by various petitioners, some of whom have come audaciously to vent their grievances with the regime at the very source.  For instance, there’s a priest who’s complaining about the Pharaoh’s policy of destroying every scrap of text that denies his divine lineage.  With her is a merchant who complains about the onerous taxation that supposedly leaves the tradesmen of the city barely able to afford a modest standard of living (though how much of that is due to their fundamentally expensive lifestyle is another question)— still, the giant piles of gold around the throne suggest she has a point.  A final set of complainants comes from the army, like the officer of the guard who wishes to bring to the Pharaoh’s attention the increasing rate of desertions by soldiers who abandon their posts to become common thugs.  

Keeping order against the petitioners are the royal guards, who brandish their weapons conspicuously and seem to relish the prospect of suppressing any overt violence with lethal force.  Given the delicacy of the situation and the fact that I’m under orders not to jeopardise the prospects for a lasting detente between Al-Kharid and Menaphos, I take my leave of the palace and have a walk through its outer grounds.  Around the back of the palace, I find a small residential district and, looking out to sea, even more evidence that a sizeable part of Menaphos has disappeared under the waves.  To my surprise, even this close to the seat of power, one can find revolutionaries, including a musician who has drawn a modest crowd with his call to arms.  Maybe the guards are letting him be as an outlet to all the tension pent-up in the political system…

As I walk down toward the houses of the district, I unexpectedly spot an egg on the pavement.  Thinking it just a normal chicken’s egg, I pick it up, and to my surprise find it covered with lustrous greenish-black flakes, as though corrupted!  And as I hold the egg, it starts moving, and before I can figure out what to do with it, it cracks open and a glowing green scorpion, apparently some kind of spirit creature, hatches out of it and begins to follow me around!  I don’t know what I’m going to call my new friend… perhaps Ishhara?  I think that’s what the Kharidian scorpion in the story that palace guard once told me while I was staying in Al-Kharid for the night was called.  And if memory fails to serve, well, Ishhara will just have a unique name that sounds Kharidian enough.

The residential areas of the imperial district are populated with dull members of the administrative elite to whom I have little to say, so I start heading back toward the central plaza.  On the way there, I pass a side entrance to the royal palace with stone carvings that indicate that the great library of Menaphos lies within.  Remembering the task Osman set me, to learn about the succession of pharaohs, I head inside, into a deep, multi-tiered chamber of bookshelves and scrolls that puts the palace library in Varrock to absolute shame!  I mean— with this sort of knowledge, it’s no wonder Menaphos is so rich and powerful!

I relinquish all plans of visiting the docks of Menaphos today, and instead sink into sampling some of this immense collection.  There’s way, way too much to be read in a single visit or even a single lifetime.  So I sample more or less at random.  The first work I look through is the diary of an architect, and specifically one impassioned entry in which he defies the desert and declares that Menaphos alone shall stand eternal.

I take that book along and move on to other shelves.  The next book I sample happens to be another journal, this one by a seer named Saa Akila that must have appeared in the library very recently.  In it, she describes a series of ill omens that have befallen the city: the Sophanem plagues, the withering of the royal gardens, the decadence that has replaced innovation, and ultimately the abandonment of the city by the gods.  Akila fears that, if these trends are not reversed, if openness is not restored, that may be the end for Menaphos.  Sobering thoughts.

The next book I look at is rather light-hearted in comparison, being a guide to the brewing of tea.  The advice that it gives is nothing revolutionary, though it does recommend that spices from the eastern isles be added to the tea— an exotic proposition given how little of that stuff has made it out to the Three Kingdoms!; the interesting part is the social commentary, on how tea is a gift from Tumeken and a suitable drink for the working class to make them more content with their toil.

I move on to the next book, which turns out to be another very recent diary by a girl named Dawnsu, evidently from Sophanem.  In it, she tells the tragic tale of how her parents both came down with Klenter’s Plague (an event that, let’s face it, was more or less my own damn fault…).  In an extremely odd twist, she becomes friends with a penguin (yes, a penguin, in the desert) pretending to be a cactus, and this penguin, named Sophie, smuggles her out of the plague-infested city to a new life.  That’s… almost too strange to believe.  And yet, her words are right there on the page!

The next account I pick up is a memoir by a disciple of Amascut by the name of Tefnut, in which he reminisces about how as a child he would rise to observe the beauty of the sunrise, yet now, as an old man, knows that beauty is a distraction and the only truth lies in emptiness.  If he really believes that, it’s quite sad!

By that point, I’ve completed my circuit of the upper tier of the library and it’s near closing time, so I tuck the books I removed from the shelves into my bag, the better to smuggle them out, and nonchalantly have a conversation with the librarian about the state of the collection.  He rebuffs my compliments about the sheer volume of knowledge stored within with a scathing attack on the Pharaoh’s policies of book-burning, which have severely depleted the shelves of material on history, sociology and, um, adult romance.  Fortunately, the librarian says, thus far they’ve been able to get away with burning only duplicate copies, but the time is approaching when the Pharaoh’s philistinism will start to do real damage.

Um, I guess I’m kind of doing my part to save this priceless knowledge, by stealing a few works here and there for my personal collection?  Anyway, the stuff I took doesn’t seem to be that valuable and I doubt the librarian (singular!) will be quick to notice it gone.  Still, there’s a lot of shelf space I haven’t even glanced at yet, and the book Osman was seeking must be around here somewhere!  I shall come back tomorrow and see what I can find.