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22 Jul 01:18

You, you’re not allowed, you’re uninvited.

by Sophia, NOT Loren!

Going through local Craigslist ads for housing, since I’m still struggling to find a place after 6 months of looking… and a few themes popped up.  Now, I already count on the general overall message of “we don’t want you here” that comes across, but I kept seeing a handful of things repeated, enough that I started saving little snippets from various ads that illustrated my point.  Roughly filed into the following categories, here are a few examples:

Be quiet, be gone, don’t remind us you exist.

  • Pets,drugs, loud party and smoking are not allowed on this property.
  • No pets, smokers, or overnight guests.
  • We don’t use drugs, 420, or alcohol, so I’m looking for a woman to share a no-drama, clear-headed lifestyle.
  • This is a Non-Smoking, QUIET and PET-FREE house.
  • looking for a single person who likes to live in tidy environment, and is considerate of noise levels, especially at night.
  • I need the living room and kitchen to be relatively quiet at night after 9pm, and the living room lights need to be off starting at 10pm.
  • Serious people only.
  • preferably male, quiet, regular easy-going, working or student type.
  • This is not a silent house, but is intended to be very peaceful and relaxing. At the same time, it is intended to be super fun and free, so their must be consensus between everyone.
  • I will have some long and busy days and like to have my home be a space to recharge, so I value quiet evenings.
  • looking for a chill roommate, preferably a mid 20’s kind of person, with a 9-5 sort of gig (like us).
  • Grad student/ busy full-time employed person preferable…

Kids, pets, and/or smoke required — kinda the opposite of the previous.

  • No pets, but there is a cat onsite.
  • There are 4 pets in the house 2 dogs and 2 cats. I will consider another animal.
  • 420 friendly, and work full time.
  • there will be 2 children in the house
  • Preferably no more pets, definitely no dogs
  • two amazing dogs!
  • we have one cat
  • I have 2 nice cats.
  • three roommates, who are employed and students, and 2 cats.
  • there is already a cat in the apartment
  • There are already two beautiful Persian cats in house
  • Kitchen privileges. References required. private half bath. Must be ok with a cat
  • The house is 420 and LGBT friendly.
  • Household has two young cats, which spend the majority of their time indoors.
  • nice, respectful, queer friendly, 420 friendly, dog friendly
  • We have a 10-yr-old

Extremely specific requirements

  • No meat or fish can be brought into house, this is a vegetarian household.
  • Ideally, you have a daily meditation practice and have sat a 10-day Vipassana course as taught by S.N. Goenka.
  • You: healthy life-style, financially stable and responsible, very clean, respectful, honest, common sense
  • share some details about yourself, including your schedule, lifestyle, why you’re moving, links to Facebook and LinkedIn profiles, etc.
  • someone who is fairly tidy and does not wear shoes indoors
  • please have 2 references available for verification.
  • work exchange for occasional care of our 5 yr old daughter
  • I do not want the house smelling of bacon or pork. Gross!
  • I am a guy looking for a fun open minded female roommate in a shared bedroom / You must be easy going and fun, and want to save on rent in this tough economy
  • No perfume, incense and/or strong scents please!!!

No requirements (and maybe no standards?)

  • studio apartment you’ll be sharing with me / typical bay area guy.
  • Male or female theres one female already and two guys. Were looking for a forth.
  • Please send a short description of yourself and what you are looking for.

And of course, “No wonder it’s that cheap!”

  • Available now for Summer rental.
  • single room in a big house with around 15 others
  • looking for a roommate to live in a cornered off space of a large living room.
  • for the the next school year.

Look, all I’m trying to find — absolute basic essential criteria — is 1) no men, 2) no pets, 3) no smoking. Unfortunately, the folks who also want “no smoking” seem to be uptight assholes who also want no alcohol (“no-drama, clear-headed lifestyle”) and no sex (“QUIET,” “quiet evenings,” “no overnight guests,” “quiet after 9pm,” “considerate of noise levels, especially at night,” “quiet, regular easy-going” etc.)

The folks who might not mind sex and alcohol gotta smoke their pot — which I don’t have a problem with, I just can’t live in the same space with the smoke (done that before, it does NOT work. Read back through my archives about living with the Girl-Child and Stoner Dude… ~shudder~)

And living with animals is apparently required if you’re among folks who understand that humans aren’t soulless robots meant to never enjoy anything… (“4 pets in the house,” “there is a cat onsite,” “two young cats,” “two beautiful Persian cats,” “already a cat,” “and 2 cats,” “2 nice cats,” etc.) My lungs and sinuses would like to be able to function, thanks, and I don’t much like animals around even when I’m not dealing with allergies from them.

I’m staying with The Rabbit right now, not dealing well with her cat, and isolated from public transportation. I’m trying to scrape by on $880 a month, a government check which is only that “high” because California supplements the federal amount of $720 monthly. Yes, you read those numbers correctly: The US Government expects someone who qualifies for SSI — essentially “permanent disability” — to be able to survive on $8,600 annual income, anywhere in the country.  And California’s added amount means that any permanently disabled person in California should be able to do just fine with barely over $10,000 a year to live on! For reference, that’s equivalent to an hourly wage of $4.13 and $5.08, respectively.  The federal minimum wage is currently $7.25/hour, and yet the same government expects someone who cannot work at the same capacity, someone with particular care needs beyond the average person, to survive on far less than that.

In fact, let’s compare one other set of numbers: The “Federal Poverty Guidelines” are a set of numbers that the government uses to determine, essentially, whether you’re broke enough to qualify for various assistance programs.  All the numbers I’ve been referencing so far are for a single individual, because those are the ones relevant to my situation, although the amounts get calculated for lager “family” sizes as well.  So, here’s the thing: the current “single individual” amount, the annual income that says “anything less than this means you’re so broke you automatically qualify for assistance” — is $11,670. Now, you might, if you have even a tiny bit of sense, notice that number is significantly larger than either “barely over $10,000” ($10,524, specifically) or $8600.  And if you’re particularly clever, you might even stop to ask, “Why, doesn’t that mean that the people living in poverty, the ones who are permanently disabled, are being given just enough ‘assistance’ to keep them in poverty?!” Yes! Exactly. That’s exactly what’s going on!

So, yeah. I have an income that’s equivalent to 70% of the federal minimum wage, 91% of the federal amount that says “you’re so broke you can’t handle basic needs,” being administered by the federal government. I’m not naïve enough to think it’s a matter of the left hand not knowing what the right one’s doing, especially when I’d be dealing with 56% of minimum wage and 73% of the “you’re definitely broke” amounts if I didn’t have that tiny extra bit from the state of California… Ebenezer Scrooge would be delighted to see the poor dying off, decreasing the supposed, imaginary “surplus population.”


Filed under: General
24 Jun 00:19

Photo



23 Jun 07:30

Let’s Not Talk About Art

by Lauren Purje

talkaboutart-1280

23 Jun 07:29

Perhaps Mentally Ill

by weeklysift

A black shooter is a thug, a Muslim is a terrorist, and a white attacker is perhaps mentally ill.

— an unidentified interviewer for RT network’s “In the Now

Now is the time for mourning and for healing. But let’s be clear. At some point, we as a country will have to reckon with the fact that this type of mass violence does not happen in other advanced countries. It doesn’t happen in other places with this kind of frequency.

President Barack Obama

This week’s featured post is “Please Take Down Your Confederate Flag“. But last August’s “Not a Tea Party, a Confederate Party” is also topical again; it had picked up more than 20K new hits between the Charleston shooting and 9:30 this morning, making it the second Weekly Sift post to go over a quarter million page views.

This week everybody was talking about the terrorist attack in South Carolina

But not everybody was calling it that. Since the shooter was a white supremacist and his victims were not whites, the incident was usually referred to as a tragedy, i.e., one of those bad things that happens now and then that nobody can do anything about. Rick Perry even called it an “accident“. (I discussed this phenomenon after the 2012 Sikh Temple shooting in “White Right-Wing Christian Terrorist“.) An interviewer at RT put it like this:

A black shooter is a thug, a Muslim is a terrorist and a white attacker is perhaps mentally ill.

If the subject weren’t so serious, it would have been comical to watch Republicans and their right-wing media allies struggle against the notion — obvious from the beginning to anybody without ideological blinders — that this was a racial attack. Multiple talking heads on Fox News tried to spin the shooting as an attack on Christians, because the imaginary persecution of American Christians fits within the boundaries the Fox fantasy world, while the very real persecution of blacks doesn’t. (Larry Wilmore collected the clips and added appropriately amazed commentary. Media Matters gives the chronology, showing that witness accounts of the shooter’s racist statements were already public before Fox’ Christian-persecution spin.)

Lindsey Graham and Rick Santorum played along with that farce. (Jeb Bush merely professed ignorance: “I don’t know what was on the mind or the heart of the man who committed these atrocious crimes.” — as if he shooter hadn’t announced what was on his mind.) Fox trotted out a black minister, Bishop E. W. Jackson, to make the Christian-persecution case, not bothering to mention that he is also a Republican politician. Wilmore was not impressed: “Black don’t distract,” he said. He also ridiculed Jackson’s statement that the shooter “didn’t choose a bar, he didn’t choose a basketball court, he chose a church”, suggesting that Jackson could also have listed “a chitlin farm” or “a watermelon stand” as stereotypic places where blacks congregate.

In a particularly Orwellian editorial, The Wall Street Journal saw the shooting as a chance to congratulate America on its racial progress: Unlike after the 1963 Birmingham church bombing, authorities in Charleston are not conspiring to help the perpetrator get away.

The universal condemnation of the murders at the Emanuel AME Church and Dylann Roof’s quick capture by the combined efforts of local, state and federal police is a world away from what President Obama recalled as “a dark part of our history.” Today the system and philosophy of institutionalized racism identified by Dr. King no longer exists.

In a different context, Wilmore recently introduced The Nightly Show’sExtremely Low Bar Award“. This looks like another strong candidate: Our law enforcement system is no longer conspiring with white-supremacist terrorists, so we must have this racism thing just about knocked. It makes me proud to be an American.

The New Republic‘s Jeet Heer also looked back to the Birmingham bombing, but pointed out that the conservative media’s response then was very similar to the denial of white racism we’re seeing today. He quotes a National Review editorial from 1963:

The fiend who set off the bomb does not have the sympathy of the white population in the South; in fact, he set back the cause of the white people there so dramatically as to raise the question whether in fact the explosion was the act of a provocateur—of a Communist, or of a crazed Negro.

And the significance of this particular church to a white supremacist couldn’t be clearer: One of the oldest black churches in America, Emanuel AME was founded by (among others) Denmark Vesey, who was hanged for leading a failed slave revolt in 1822.

Discussion of the Confederate flag that still flies in front of the South Carolina state capitol, and can’t even be lowered to half-mast without an act of the legislature, is a topic I pushed into its own article. My main point there is that a symbol like the Confederate flag is so powerful that your personal intentions in displaying it don’t matter: It means what it means. Maybe you associate it with country music and good barbeque and The Dukes of Hazzard, but that just doesn’t matter. It is the flag of slavery and Jim Crow and the KKK and lynchings and Dylann Roof. You can’t make that stuff go away.

Finally, there’s the frequent statement — based on more-or-less nothing — that Dylann Roof was a “loner” or a “lone wolf”. We now have what appears to be his manifesto, and it’s filled with standard white-supremacist rhetoric and references. We still don’t know whether he met other white supremacists face-to-face or had any help planning his attack. But he clearly was plugged in to that network, through the internet at the very least.

Make the parallel to Muslim terrorists and ISIS. If a Muslim shooter had been browsing ISIS web sites and wrote a manifesto full of ISIS rhetoric, would we see him as a loner, or think of him as part of ISIS? Those same Republican politicians — Lindsey Graham, for example — who cast Roof as a disturbed loner would be demanding that a similar Muslim be grilled hard (and maybe even tortured) to identify his contacts in the movement.

and the Pope’s global-warming encyclical

Charleston dominated my attention this week, so I still haven’t finished reading Laudato Si or given its message the attention it deserves. Next week.

I do want to make two strategic observations that explain why I think this is a big deal:

  • Climate-change denial is geared towards confusing people about science; it’s not well set up to oppose a religious movement that defends God’s creation. Scientists are well-known evolution-pushing liberals who are easy to cast as part of a global socialist conspiracy. A diverse consortium of religious leaders is harder to tar with that charge, and fossil-fuel conservatives look ridiculous when they try.
  • What we’ve seen in regard to both women-in-the-clergy and gay rights is that no Christian denomination wants to be the most liberal group to defend a benighted conservative position. When the Congregationalists turn, that puts pressure on the Episcopalians, and when they turn the onus shifts to the Methodists, and then the Presbyterians, and so on. The Catholic Church has been the only denomination big enough to resist that kind of pressure, and now that it has taken a strong position calling for action against climate change, there’s no telling where the dominoes stop falling. American Christianity might wind up speaking with a fairly united voice on this issue.

BTW: NOAA’s May statistics still have 2015 on its way towards being the hottest year on record, replacing last year.

and still more presidential candidates

Jeb Bush’s announcement was an anti-climax, because he’s so clearly been running for months now. And I’m left with the question: What issues will he run on? His positions on immigration and education are unpopular with the Republican base. I have heard no specific suggestions for how he would fight ISIS or terrorism in general differently than President Obama. I really don’t think his blaming Obama for “the biggest debt ever” will stick, given that Obama has drastically reduced the deficit he inherited from Jeb’s brother.

I’ll get to his speech eventually in my 2016 series, probably after I do Hillary’s, but my immediate reaction is surprise at how little is in there. There are hints of a tax plan, hints of increased defense spending, but the only number in the speech is his goal of 4% annual GDP growth. Increased growth would be good — I wonder why nobody ever thought of that before.


Jeb didn’t stay in the news very long, though, because the next day Donald Trump announced his candidacy with a rambling speech that sounded like the kind of thing you’d hear from the guy on the next stool at your favorite bar. Digby warns us that we have to take the Donald seriously. But the comedians had a different reaction: Jon Stewart looked to Heaven and said “Thank you.” Larry Wilmore unwrapped Trump’s candidacy as a gift from the Comedy Gods.

Here’s what’s going to be amazing once the debates start in August: All the minor candidates are going to be looking to make headlines by saying something outrageous, but how are they going to compete with Trump? What will they have to say?

In the 2012 cycle, the crowd reactions were bad publicity for the GOP as a whole: They booed a soldier calling in from Iraq because he was gay. They cheered the idea of letting somebody without health insurance die. What is the audience going to do when Trump says that Mexican immigrants are rapists? Or voices one of his other incredible opinions? The general public may get a chance to see just how far around the bend the Republican base really is, and how every single one of the candidates panders to that insanity.


I loved Jamelle Bouie’s take on Hillary Clinton: She was a nerd before it was cool, and her public-image ambiguity stems from trying not to look like the geeky policy wonk she really is. He thinks she should “go full nerd” and be herself.

and Rachel Dolezal

I am still trying to fathom the depth of the public reaction to Rachel Dolezal, the woman who was born to white parents and raised as a white girl, but at some point in adulthood began presenting herself as black, and eventually became president of the Spokane chapter of the NAACP.

In part, the story attracts attention because of its man-bites-dog character. Light-skinned blacks have been passing as white in America since colonial times, as I discussed last year in a review of Daniel Sharfstein’s The Invisible Line. (One member of a black-turned-white family Sharfstein researched was a Confederate officer during the Civil War and a Louisiana senator afterward.) But passing in the other direction is not something you hear about very often.

But even that doesn’t explain the urgency with which writers of all racial and political identities have been addressing this topic, as if Dolezal’s situation demanded our immediate action. I suppose if I were connected to the Spokane NAACP, I’d have a responsibility to form an opinion about Dolezal. And I can imagine that I might feel conned if I belonged to the constituency of the Spokane NAACP, and counted on it to represent my interests. I might believe that I had at least deserved the chance to know the details of Dolezal’s claim to a black identity before she was hired, so that I could decide for myself how confident I felt in her ability to represent me.

But that doesn’t make it a national issue either.

A lot of the ink spilled about Dolezal concerned what her kind of “transracialism” says about transgenderism, which was still on everybody’s mind after the Caitlyn Jenner story broke a few weeks ago. But the parallel between Dolezal and Jenner escapes me. Jenner broke the story herself, and all she asks of us is that we let her live her life (and maybe watch her TV show). What if Dolezal had done likewise? She might have said, “Hey, everybody, for a long time now I’ve been thinking of myself as black. So I’m going to darken my skin and frizz my hair and try to live in the black community as a black.” And then everybody could do what they wish with that information.

I don’t see anything to object to in that scenario.

The transgender community is already discussing how they feel about Jenner’s celebrity, which will likely offer her a de facto spokesperson role, if she wants one. But to make the case similar to Dolezal, Jenner would have to be angling for a role not just as spokesperson for transgender people, but for women. I see no sign of that at all.

If you do feel compelled to form an opinion about Dolezal, here’s an interesting thought experiment: What if one of her parents had crossed the racial line in the other direction? Then Dolezal would be reclaiming some forgotten black grandparent, but her life might have been almost exactly the same. She might have been raised as a white girl by parents everyone believed to be white, and have had all the same experiences, giving her no additional insight into the black experience in America. Intuitively, it seems like the grandparent would make her claim to blackness more authentic. But why? Is it really just genes?


In the section above, I was using a couple of abstract principles that someday I’ll have to flesh out on my philosophical/religious blog, where I post far less frequently. First, judgment is not an end in itself. Judgment is a tool for guiding action. If you can’t foresee playing a role in some relevant decision-making process, then you don’t really need to have an opinion, and there’s no inherent virtue in forming one. Sometimes thinking a case through is a worthwhile exercise that sharpens your mind. But it can also be a way to avoid other topics that really do demand your judgment. (On my Facebook news feed, I found it instructive how fast discussion of Dolezal dried up as soon as the Charleston shooting gave us a serious racial issue to think about.)

Second, the standards of judgment should serve the purposes of judgment. Just as judgment is not an end in itself, high standards are not ends in themselves either. So the answer to the question: “Do I believe Dolezal is really black?” depends on why I need to know. If it’s up to me to decide whether she gets some kind of affirmative action benefit, then I’d set a fairly high standard, and would probably say no. But if I’m her neighbor, and the question is whether I’m going to accept her for what she aspires to be, then I’d apply a lower standard and probably say yes.


And finally, if you go full Zen on the topic, all our identities are false. We talk about “true” and “false” identities, as if we were dealing with a binary category. But authenticity is a continuum like anything else. (That was the philosophical theme of my Jenner article.) Anybody’s identity is only authentic up to a point.

All of which reminds me of one of my favorite quotes from William James’ The Varieties of Religious Experience:

The first thing the intellect does with an object is to class it along with something else. But any object that is infinitely important to us and awakens our devotion feels to us also as if it must be sui generis and unique. Probably a crab would be filled with a sense of personal outrage if it could hear us class it without ado or apology as a crustacean, and thus dispose of it. “I am no such thing,” it would say; “I am MYSELF, MYSELF alone.”

I can’t help wondering what James’ crab voice sounded like when he gave the original lecture in Edinburgh in 1901.

and let’s close with something cute

It’s been a tough week. We need this.


23 Jun 07:29

The Madcap Masonry of Clinker Bricks

by Allison Meier
Clinker brick at Memorial Park Cemetery in Oklahoma City (photo by the author for Hyperallergic)

Clinker brick at Memorial Park Cemetery in Oklahoma City (all photos by the author for Hyperallergic unless noted)

With twisted, charred shapes distended in chaotic lines, clinker brick looks like the deranged work of a madman. Around 1900, thanks to the Arts and Crafts movement, these previously discarded chunks of vitrified material from the brick-making process were suddenly prized for their organic feel. Built into walls, fireplaces, and foundations across the United States, a few examples still stand, appearing like moments of insanity in our mostly uniform architecture.

I first came across clinker brick at Memorial Park Cemetery in Oklahoma City, where a huge wall rambles around the burial ground with waves of blackened brick that seem salvaged from some Krakatoa-like disaster, assembled as if someone built it by touch instead of sight. At first I couldn’t understand how anyone once considered this beautiful, yet comparing it to the huge neighboring car lots with their identical, shiny trucks and sedans lined up alongside the smooth highways, there’s something bold about how it celebrates disorder.

Clinker brick at Memorial Park Cemetery in Oklahoma City (photo by the author for Hyperallergic)

Clinker brick at Memorial Park Cemetery in Oklahoma City (click to enlarge)

The “clinker” name comes from the ringing sound made when these bricks got too close to the kiln flames and fused together. Their use by architects like Greene and Greene based in Pasadena, California, was partly a reaction to the perfectly manufactured bricks that were the new standard in the 20th century. It was also affordable when mixed in with standard bricks. Clinker wasn’t the only unusual brick design of the early 1900s — tapestry brick, for example, mixed various colors — although it was the most distinctive, transferring the Arts and Crafts interest in rustic traditions onto the industrial material.

Clinker brick at Memorial Park Cemetery in Oklahoma City (photo by the author for Hyperallergic)

Clinker brick at Memorial Park Cemetery in Oklahoma City

Craftsman-era bungalows, where much of the clinker brick survives, are where it got the nickname “peanut-brittle-style masonry.” There’s also the Holy Trinity Anglican Church in Strathcona, Alberta, which influenced the city of Edmonton to construct around 150 buildings with clinker brick. And there are a few examples in New York City, such as Crystal Gardens apartments in Astoria, and apartment buildings at 419 East 57th Street and 405 East 54th Street in Manhattan by the New York Architectural Terra Cotta Company. Susan VanHecke wrote in the 2006 “The Accidental Charm of Clinker Bricks” for Old-House Journal: “In these days of automated manufacturing, when perfectly identical bricks are produced thousands at a time, clinkers are all but nonexistent.” Now abandoned kilns are often the source for clinker renovation or restoration.

The architect behind the Oklahoma City cemetery is anonymous, although it inspired a man named Oscar Allison in 1933 to build the clinker Capitol Hill Monument Co. in the city. Below are more photographs of the cemetery wall, as well as some clinker brick examples from around the United States.

Clinker brick at Memorial Park Cemetery in Oklahoma City (photo by the author for Hyperallergic)

Clinker brick at Memorial Park Cemetery in Oklahoma City

Clinker brick at Memorial Park Cemetery in Oklahoma City (photo by the author for Hyperallergic)

Clinker brick at Memorial Park Cemetery in Oklahoma City

Clinker brick at Memorial Park Cemetery in Oklahoma City (photo by the author for Hyperallergic)

Clinker brick at Memorial Park Cemetery in Oklahoma City

Clinker brick on the porch and foundation of the Ira H. Brooks House in Fresno County, California (after 1933) (via Historic American Buildings Survey)

Clinker brick on the porch and foundation of the Ira H. Brooks House in Fresno County, California (after 1933) (via Historic American Buildings Survey)

Clinker brick on the chimney of the Ira H. Brooks House in Fresno County, California (after 1933) (via Historic American Buildings Survey)

Clinker brick on the chimney of the Ira H. Brooks House in Fresno County, California (after 1933) (via Historic American Buildings Survey)

Clinker bricks on the Aurora Elks Lodge in Aurora, Illinois (photo by Smallbones, via Wikimedia)

Clinker bricks on the Aurora Elks Lodge in Aurora, Illinois (photo by Smallbones, via Wikimedia)

Clinker brick house in San Jose, California (photo by David Sawyer, via Flickr)

Clinker brick house in San Jose, California (photo by David Sawyer, via Flickr)

Clinker brick on Holy Trinity Anglican Church in Strathcona, Alberta (photo by Arctic.gnome, via Wikimedia)

Clinker brick on Holy Trinity Anglican Church in Strathcona, Alberta (photo by Arctic.gnome, via Wikimedia)

23 Jun 07:28

Floraform JewelryComputational design project from Nervous...











Floraform Jewelry

Computational design project from Nervous Systems creates unique 3D printed jewelry which are formed from generative structures which mimic organic growth:

We’ve generated a jewelry collection with Floraform. For each piece, we crafted a unique growth process that results in a specific emergent form. The flowering structures expand fastest along their edges, evolving from simple surfaces to flexuous forms that fill space with curves, folds, and ruffles. There are 24 new designs which come in 3D-printed nylon and sterling silver and are available in our shop.

The collection explores how different starting geometries interact with the growth process to produce the final pieces. We use contact with the body as an environmental constraint, producing designs that conform to or expand from the finger, wrist, and neck.

More Here

23 Jun 07:28

Knowing Your Audience Is Mostly NERDS

by Scott Lemieux

spiderman1967

Scalia’s decision to give Kimble v. Marvel Entertainment to Kagan was inspired:

  • “The parties set no end date for royalties, apparently contemplating that they would continue for as long as kids want to imitate Spider-Man (by doing whatever a spider can).”
  • “Patents endow their holders with certain superpowers, but only for a limited time.”
  • “To the contrary, the decision’s close relation to a whole web of precedents means that reversing it could threaten others.”
  • “What we can decide, we can undecide. But stare decisis teaches that we should exercise that authority sparingly. Cf. S. Lee and S. Ditko, Amazing Fantasy No. 15: “SpiderMan,” p. 13 (1962) (“[I]n this world, with great power there must also come — great responsibility”).”

Substantively, the case is another example of the disagreement between Scalia and Thomas about the value of stare decisis. While I’m dubious about the idea of “superpowered” precedents in general, in this case — involving statutory interpretation in an area of law in which Congress has been very active and contract law — it makes a certain amount of sense. I also thought Kagan’s discussion of the implications of stare decisis was interesting:

Respecting stare decisis means sticking to some wrong decisions. The doctrine rests on the idea, as Justice Brandeis famously wrote, that it is usually “more important that the applicable rule of law be settled than that it be settled right.” Indeed, stare decisis has consequence only to the extent it sustains incorrect decisions; correct judgments have no need for that principle to prop them up.

I don’t think this is strictly accurate. Stare decisis could also have value in preserving rules that in the first instance could have been reasonably decided either way in the interests of stability. But courts generally prefer not to be explicit about how much discretion they have — “correct” and “incorrect” sound more authoritative than “a decision in a case that could have plausibly come out either way.”

23 Jun 07:27

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23 Jun 07:26

Bent Wood Objects by Joseph Walsh Studio Twist and Spiral into Extraordinary Forms

by Kate Sierzputowski

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Walsh_06

Designer Joseph Walsh believes that the quality of life can be improved by surrounding ourselves with work that is valued beyond both its form and function, an idea manifested through his functional art and sculptures embedded with calculated chaos. Walsh designs and produces pieces that stimulate the mind, entice the senses, and exist as more than our traditional view of furniture and design objects.

Walsh designs one-of-a-kind pieces like the enormous desk he produced as a part of the Design Show exhibition at the New Art Centre in Roche Court in 2014. At its center the pieces looks almost like a traditional work surface, then it spirals upward, engulfing visitors and ending in a very large shelf that extends against one wall of the gallery.

In Walsh’s Lilium series he explores the relationship between the geometric and the organic, mixing symmetrical repetitions with elaborate abstract shapes. Through each of these techniques Walsh captures natural growth, calling forth nature’s sometimes random generations and curious patterns.

“In ‘Lilium’ I explore the relationship between the ordered and chaotic; the geometric and the lyrical; the perfect, effortless symmetry of the bulb, the regulated, controlled element and its freed form as it reaches through and beyond,” says Walsh. “The Lilium series is both a study and an expression of the relationship between the beauty we create and the beauty we allow to happen; the beauty we participate in creating and the beauty we quietly observe.”

Walsh founded his studio and workshop in 1999 in Co. Cork, Ireland. Self-taught, he continually seeks inspiration for his pieces in patterns of growth and evolution. Walsh does not work alone, but with a team of master makers and technicians, helping to both engineer and craft the final pieces that come out of the studio. You can see more images of his elegantly designed furniture and decorative pieces on his Facebook page. (via My Amp Goes to 11 and My Modern Met)

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Walsh_03 Walsh_04

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23 Jun 07:26

The Leaflets Dropped Before the Hiroshima Atomic Bomb

by Zack Sigel
A B-29 releases incendiary bombs on Yokohama in May 1945. (U.S. Air Force photo)

A B-29 releases incendiary bombs on Yokohama in May 1945 (image via National Museum of US Air Force)

Hiroshima on the morning of August 6, 1945, was bright, sunny, and perhaps a little uncomfortably warm. Except for a lingering anxiety among its residents that they were due for something special — Hiroshima had been spared the air raids and firebombs launched that summer against its neighbors — there was but the passing buzz of American B-29s to suggest anything to be concerned about. Several days earlier, much of Japan, including Hiroshima, was showered by American forces with millions of leaflets, each containing a seemingly humanitarian plea to evacuate the citizens of twelve cities named on the leaflet’s reverse side. There are three known versions of this leaflet, designed by General Curtis LeMay, and the cities named were almost all of questionable military or economic value. Hiroshima was not among them. At 8:15 in the morning, the city was leveled by the “brief reincarnations of distant suns.”

messages written on the back of the LeMay leaflet

Messages written on the back of a LeMay leaflet (click to enlarge) (image via Gifu Prefecture)

The “LeMay leaflet,” as it has become known, was twenty-one centimeters wide and fourteen centimeters high. It was printed in black-and-white, and features a fearsome photograph of five Boeing B-29 Superfortress bombers casually dropping their payloads onto unseen targets. The image was taken from an air raid over Yokohama — a cropped version, officially released by the Air Force, contains fewer bombers — which occurred on May 29th, 1945, and killed as many as 8,000 people. The incendiary bombs appear to be falling directly on a half-border of tidy circles, illustrations superimposed over the photograph that contain the names of eleven or twelve cities. The other side of the leaflet is dedicated to a long, stern appeal to the hypothetical civilian discovering it, and explains that “America is not fighting the Japanese people but is fighting the military clique which has enslaved the Japanese people,” urging civilians, in no certain terms, to evacuate.

In 1958, the Operations Research Office, a department of Johns Hopkins funded by the United States military, commissioned William E. Daugherty, one of its employees, to document the use and effectiveness of military propaganda. The resulting work, exhaustively compiled by Daugherty, was called A Psychological Warfare Casebook, and describes the LeMay leafleting as having occurred on three separate days. The following leaflet was dropped on July 27:

Print

Image of LeMay leaflet, counter-clockwise, the circles read: Tokyo, Ujiyamada, Tsu, Koriyama, Hakodate, Nagaoka, Uwajima, Kurume, Ichinomiya, Ogaki, Nishinomiya, and Aomori (image via papersleuth.com)

The next day, half of these cities — Aomori, Ichinomiya, Tsu, Ujiyamada, Ōgaki, and Uwajima — were subjected to firebombing, and thousands were killed.

Daugherty writes that Japanese cities were next leafleted on July 30 and again on August 1. A report on the Central Intelligence Agency’s “Studies in Intelligence” website also claims that leaflets were dropped “on 33 cities,” including Hiroshima and Nagasaki, on August 3.

3

LeMay leaflet; counter-clockwise, the text reads: Nagano, Takaoka, Kurume, Fukuyama, Toyama, Maizuru, Otsu, Nishinomiya, Maebashi, Koriyama, Hachioji, and Mito (image via cia.gov)

These leaflets contain, with some exceptions, a different set of cities, but their design and the message on the back have not changed. On August 1, Mito, Hachioji, and Nagaoka were bombed, and Toyama, Maebashi, and Saga followed in the days after. The next Monday saw the first use of the atomic bomb in human history, and that following Thursday the second. The Imperial Army of Japan continued to fight until August 15, and the firebombings continued until then, most against cities warned on the leaflets, but also against some which were not. In several cases, such as with Akita, cities were not targeted for an air raid until more than two weeks after being named on a leaflet.

Daugherty makes clear that the leaflets were successful in one aspect: they managed to scare the citizens, not save them. As people attempted to evacuate, wartime production halted, and the movement of noncombatants tied up the military forces, leading to the “further breakdown of social structure in Japanese communities.” When the B-29s finally arrived, whether carrying incendiary devices, nuclear bombs, or simply more leaflets, there was little either the army or the civilians could do. As Daugherty, whose book was explicitly written to “meet the particular needs of Army personnel,” explains, “Warnings … tend to increase the impact of lethal weapons.” In the ensuing chaos and confusion, the US military could hope for even more casualties. But in the case of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, which were never named on the leaflets they received, the humanitarian pretense was dropped entirely. Small wonder that nobody expected what was to come.

Leaflets disguised as money so as to attract civilians

Leaflets disguised as money so as to attract civilians (image via cia.gov)

leaflets packaged

Soldiers packaging up leaflets for distribution (image via cia.gov)

23 Jun 07:25

Stick Shift on Greenlight

by Robert Yang
I've put Stick Shift on Greenlight. Because why not? I thought it would be a good fit for Steam because it's probably the most game-y of my recent sex games, with the exception of Cobra Club -- though Cobra Club has been unilaterally banned from Twitch.TV so I doubt Steam will allow for dicks, unfortunately.

Please YES it if you want to help me wreck Steam. Thanks.

23 Jun 07:25

Vincent van Gogh Possibly Identified in Newly Discovered Group Photo of Famous Artists from 1887

by Christopher Jobson

vincent-is-it-you
JULES ANTOINE (1863-1948) ATTR. – Vincent Van Gogh in conversation with friends, Paris, 96 rue Blanche, December 1887 Melanotype, direct positive and reversed image on blackboard (carton photographique), 86×112 mm, “Gautier Martin” stamp, recto. Vincent Van Gogh in conversation with Paul Gauguin, Emile Bernard, Félix Jobbé-Duval. André Antoine is standing between them.

close

Some experts believe this recently discovered 1887 melainotype showing six men drinking around a table may include a rare sighting of painter Vincent van Gogh. Van Gogh famously recorded himself in numerous self-portraits, but was known to abhor photography and supposedly never sat for a photo as an adult; only two rare photos of the artist as a child are known to exist, taken when he was 13 and 19.

The image first came to the attention of French photo expert Serge Plantureux when two individuals acquired the photo at an estate sale and thought they recognized a few of the faces, among them, artists Paul Gauguin and Emile Bernard—a significant discovery in and of itself. Analyzing the photographic process, the photographer (thought to be to Jules Antoine), and pinpointing the when the photo was taken raised the chances significantly that a bearded figure who appears amongst the gathering of stoic men might be Van Gogh. Serge Plantureux writes for magazine L’Oeil de la Photographie (The Eye of Photography):

The photograph they had brought to show me was small, dark, and rather difficult to see. Six characters were around a table. The light was pale, perhaps it was a winter afternoon.

They told me, still hesitant, that they thought they recognized the people in it, artists in whom they had long been interested. They were collectors and liked the painters of the late 19th century, in particular the neo-impressionists. They also said it was possible that one of the figures around the table was someone whose true face had never been seen.

The photo went to auction just this weekend and was expected to fetch between $136,000 to $170,000, though a final sale price hasn’t been made public. Still, some experts aren’t convinced. The photo expert for the Van Gogh museum in Amsterdam feels it can’t be the artist “because it simply does not look like him,” and also mentions the artist’s desire to never be photographed. Others note that Van Gogh didn’t mention the gathering in his meticulously written letters from the time period.

Regardless, the photo is still of significant historical value and only time will tell if experts reach a consensus in the identities of everyone depicted. (via PetaPixel, Hyperallergic)

23 Jun 07:24

Voice

Anyway, we should totally go watch a video story or put some food in our normal mouths!
23 Jun 07:24

BLa88VaDwisucy37xzryaMOzo1_500.jpg (Image JPEG, 480x362 pixels)

by mitchum
23 Jun 07:23

Houston oil business president charged with punching gay man unconscious

by Mark Frauenfelder

Anthony Fera (above), president of Houston’s MidStar Energy LP, was charged with assault for allegedly hitting Andy Smith, executive director of the Texas Instruments Foundation, so hard that he was knocked unconscious. In Smith's police statement he alleges that he was walking with his husband in Austin when Fera nearly hit the couple with his car.

"I hollered out, 'you nearly hit us.'" Fera reportedly replied, 'Fuck you faggot.'" Smith and Fera exchanged a few more words before Fera exited his car, punched Smith in the head, ran back, and resumed driving.

Paul Von Wupperfeld, Smith's husband, writes in his statement that Smith’s face “was swollen and bloody from where he had been punched, with cuts on his nose, right cheek, and chin. He was unconscious for around 30-45 seconds. When he came around he was groggy and disoriented.”

Fera is back on the streets after paying $5,000 bail.

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23 Jun 07:23

My Evenings Reading Alone

by K. Thomas Kahn

It is thanks to my evening reading alone that I am still more or less sane.

–W. G. Sebald

One night, out of nowhere, he started snoring: laboringly so, the walls bending away from his exhales, so that even the cat crept off to sleep somewhere else. I lay awake reciting the Rime of the Ancient Mariner backward to no avail; try as I could, I couldn’t map my breathing to his.

For nearly ten years I had lain beside him: the snoring was a blow, but, looking back, it was also a necessary portent, an etch in our story, the fuzzy spot on a picture frame you can’t tell is from the photograph aging or a fingerprint that left its caressing mark on the glass. The doctors had no news to give, so instead they gave him pills; and when the pills didn’t help him,BookSleepingPills I started taking them instead—blacking out in the stairwell of the complex in which we lived; waking suddenly hours or moments later to find myself sitting on the balcony with an ashtray strewn with half a dozen cigarette butts; time moved slowly, when I remembered it, or else sped toward a dawn of some kind. I submitted myself to rigorous questioning to ascertain whether I was asleep or awake, hearing all the while his jagged breathing rock the walls through the open windows, belligerent albatross, always ruining the silence.

They fitted him with a CPAP mask that made him look like an astronaut in a B-movie. We joked about this while awake, but when the lights are out bets are always off. Through the hissing darkness, I would roll over and see a massive shadow with a tentacled snout, my first hazy thought of the boa constrictor swallowing the elephant in The Little Prince; the first few nights this vision scared the fuck out of me, but I’ve slept with such a cast of frightening creatures that I viewed it as an inevitable, inescapable burden.

I can’t recall whose idea it was about to use the spare room. It was either me, frenzied from lack of sleep, angry that his sudden onslaught of snores appeared now, of all times, and kept me conscious, or else it was him, out of guilt or frustration or shame. Or how perhaps one night he went to pee with his mask still on and scared himself half to death, looking like Gregor Samsa in the mirror above the sink.

Whoever’s idea it was, I began sleeping in the spare room. We had lived in the flat for four years, and the spare room housed a jumble of things: its closets filled with items we’d collected from living in three countries, things we couldn’t ever bear to part with for ineffable reasons: dismembered computer parts like a high-tech murder scene at one end of the room, hard drives smashed to shreds with a rusty sledgehammer; a lone single bed for guests we rarely had and which the cat appropriated as her own. And lining each wall were our bookshelves, the sets that didn’t fit against the walls in the living room, stacked up there, in a room that first felt like no place at all to me, SharkNoseslacking the personality or scent or feeling associated with most rooms. For don’t all rooms have their own personalities, even if they’re at variance with our own?

I slept surrounded by books we’d shipped by freighter, and some nights I imagined—my nights were all fantasies; I had escaped the from the epicenter of snores but I must have known we were living out a metaphor—that I could still smell the water on their spines, long-since sloughed away. I would open them when sleep eluded me and see scribblings in the margins from a hand I once used years ago, a hand I no longer recognized as mine. In the bedroom there had been nothing; it was sparsely furnished with a bed, a night table, and a hassock. In the spare room, though, I would spend night after night combing through the books we’d even forgotten we had—and how desperate we had been to rescue them all, thinking that we would always want them—falling finally asleep among such giants, such treasures, that I began to wonder how the constrictions of that bedroom hadn’t done us in earlier. I found I needed to be surrounded by things, especially by words.

So that is how I began to sleep without him, and instead began to sleep with others: Proust, Mann, Borges, Woolf, Akhmatova, Dickinson. If I couldn’t sleep it wasn’t because he was snoring, the great beast that “stamps, and stamps, and stamps” and terrorizes Louis in The Waves, but because some poem was keeping me awake, its rhythms bouncing against the edges of my skull like a electroshock therapy. I thought at the time that sleep was a paltry excuse not to be open to everything, not to be fully conscious; I began to lament the fact that each day must end with its night, and all false dilemmas of that sort. I would pass the bedroom door, which was now his room (although we didn’t start calling it that until later), to go out on the balcony and see stars, jutting out my index finger as if I had an audience toward bodies like Lepus or Orion, continuing to play the words I had sprawled out on what was now my bed with which I was reacquainted myself through my head, Orion2DRescuefinding them always the an exact fit for this that time, this that purple mood of night.

I didn’t know that I would later thank him later for giving me the night, or rather the company of night. In Vertigo, W. G. Sebald confesses: “It is thanks to my evening reading alone that I am still more or less sane.” And he’s right: these books, these words that prompt and prod and provoke me so that my mind is too disturbed, too pleased, to sleep—these were more company than his deadweight, snoring body ever was, perhaps even before the snoring commenced so suddenly, like an attack of hives or a grand mal seizure. Our rhythms had stopped being aligned; he wanted external quiet when the lights were turned out—apart from when we fucked, but, because it was him, that didn’t last long—to cultivate a delusional internal quiet so as not to impede the drift into unconsciousness. It was a ritual with him each and every night, one I took part in only by scooping sleeping tablets from a bottle I wasn’t sure was mine or his and hoping to fall hard into sleep. For years, it was the only way I knew how to sleep.

And this is why the snoring rattled me so much; all the preparations for sleep, the floss and the face creams, made it feel as if night were closing in on us and we were simply readying ourselves passively to meet it. It contributed to the fantasy that we somehow succumb to sleep, like how a man hanging by his fingers at a cliff’s edge succumbs to the valley below—quick, sudden, acquiescent. It also contributed to the fantasy that consciousness was something he and I welcomed, a state we shared because we both carried it intact; there was no need to chart or measure it so long as we were awake together. Instead, sleep became the only thing we had in common: the plummet into the dark continent a refuge, our bodies lying close to but our dream journeys neglecting, erasing the other. Drinking from the waters of Lethe, moon pills beneath my tongue, it seemed I no longer even welcomed dreams of him, of the life that we had shared. I suppose we cherished and ritualized sleep because it was the only way we could cling to each other; his snoring took my only reprieve from wakefulness away from me.

When I began calling the spare room mine, though, I realized that this wasn’t the way one should look at sleep. Viewed in that way, sleep becomes the antithesis of wakefulness, and, given the proper context, its archenemy. But this isn’t true at all. If I prepare for sleep—if I brush my teeth and wash my face and set the alarm and turn toward him to see SleepDiveif he will turn toward me before we turn away toward our respective walls, praying for Hypnos like addicted dreamers—this does not mean that I will sleep. And when I didn’t sleep in the spare room, I found refuge in the books there: not only because they were books, and books meant solace and truth to me from a very early age; but because they were my books, forgotten books offering a treasure if only I could read them properly. They had granted me wisdom before; I had even noted it down, underlining passages, marking pages, dog-earing corners, adding my own commentaries to the one already printed on the page.

In the spare room, while my dwindling lover snored so loudly in the next room I feared he would swallow his tongue, I found myself again in these books: the handwriting might not have registered immediately as my own, but if I suckled at the words once, I could surely do it again. Reading the notes I had written years ago, countries ago, I summoned who I was then; I could feel his breath against mine as we paged through Albertine disparue one August evening when the air indoors was too close and the clematis broke through the window screen to accompany us on our journey. Following along the jottings and scribbled text, I confronted a version of me, who, back then, hadn’t wanted to be confronted, except through words and their fleeting registers. In the spare room, we begin to help one another, clamorously so because we were both certain that we would one day forget.

I learned that instead of clenching your toes and fingers when sleep doesn’t come as if it were an unearned right, you must take refuge in the words, the images, the ghosts you encounter in the shadows, as that is the only time that they appear. At such moments, our paths cross theirs, and theirs ours; those books that have always spoken and will always continue to speak to you are your only creed—you must let them lead you to sleep only when they’re done with you. Words are your ammunition, your Tarot pack, your charm to achieve invincibility. There are still some nights when I wonder whom he’s keeping awake now, but I always circle back to the more pressing fact that I’m awake now—fingering spines, leafing through texts that could once more be mine.

In this extended metaphor, I unearth myself while he snores in a room that used to be mine. I needn’t elaborate here, for any reader will know that this was portentous in how it marked so clearly the beginning of the end. Nights like tonight, as I’m sitting here surrounded by books and unable to sleep, I think back to the spare room, the snores that drove me there in the first place—especially to the revelations I encountered when I read aloud to myself, those two selves somehow merged for the first time ever, his absence causing me to acknowledge that I had been lost. The books were, in many ways and as they always are, the breadcrumbs strewn along the forest floor; the words were the trail, and one trusts the trek forward even if it ends up in a ditch or a quagmire. For even with the supple, potent fact of a breathing body beside us in bed at night, aren’t we all always reading alone?

***

Rumpus original art by Mark Armstrong.

Related Posts:

23 Jun 07:23

The Giving Word

by Michelle Vider

miser: “A wretch covetous to extremity,” according to Samuel Johnson, “who in wealth makes himself miserable by the fear of poverty.”

ninjo: 人情 Japanese for human compassion, as compared with social obligations (see giri).

noblesse oblige: literally, “noble rank entails responsibility.” Earliest use in English, 1837. Honoré de Balzac referred to it in 1836 as “un vieux mot.”

At Lapham’s Quarterly, senior editor Leopold Froehlich created a brief global glossary of philanthropy, using language and culture as the lens through which we understand giving.

Related Posts:

23 Jun 07:23

throated sarah vandella

by admin

throated_sarah_vandella_2015-02-13-09_59_50 throated_sarah_vandella_2015-02-13-10_00_00 throated_sarah_vandella_2015-02-13-10_00_10 throated_sarah_vandella_2015-02-13-10_00_48

The post throated sarah vandella appeared first on droolingfemme.

23 Jun 07:23

Ice-T Law & Order SVU Part II









Ice-T Law & Order SVU Part II

23 Jun 07:22

bloodmilk: Tsutomu Kawakami sculpture that @audkawa turned me...



bloodmilk:

Tsutomu Kawakami sculpture that @audkawa turned me on to recently. stunning.

23 Jun 07:22

U.S. Government: Lasers are Evil

by Kevin

How many times does it have to be said? Lasers don't kill people, sharks with frickin' laser beams attached to their heads kill people. That doesn't make the laser evil.

laser shark!
Only partly evil (Image: New Line Cinema)

Wait, did someone argue that a laser is inherently evil? Yep. Might it have been the United States government? Yep.

Of course, the government has lots of lasers itself, and is desperately trying to make some that can actually be used to kill people and melt things. (You may be remembering those laser-equipped 747s that were supposed to shoot down missiles. Didn't work, we learned $5.3 billion later. But they'll get it right this time.) So it may seem odd that it would argue in court that lasers are "insidious instruments normally used for criminal purposes," and that possessing them is "indicative of a readiness to do evil." Why would it say that?

Because an immigrant had one.

John Coquico is a citizen of the Philippines but has been a permanent resident of the U.S. for some time. In 2007, he was convicted of second-degree robbery in California, and the Department of Homeland Security decided it wanted to deport him. The U.S. Code has lots of reasons that aliens can be deported, including conviction of some crimes. But not any crime will do. Aggravated felonies? Yes. Espionage. Of course. Gun crimes? Sure. Stealing a magazine and a bus pass? Well, that's not on the list. But it is second-degree (unarmed) robbery, and some courts have held that robbery is a "crime of moral turpitude," and those are on the list.

Wait, what the F is "moral turpitude"? Good question. "Turpitude," says the OED, means "base or shameful character; baseness, vileness; depravity, wickedness."

I am alone the villain of the earth,
And feel I am so most. O Antony,
Thou mine of bounty, how wouldst thou have paid
My better service, when my turpitude
Thou dost so crown with gold!

Antony & Cleopatra, Act IV, scene VI (1623) (emphasis added). "Moral turpitude" is a legal term; as the Ninth Circuit defines it, for example, it means an act that "(1) is vile, base, or depraved and (2) violates accepted moral standards." So, yeah, it's basically "turpitude" with "moral" tacked on to make it sound more impressive. That'll be $500, please.

Anyway, Coquico didn't argue that robbery isn't a "crime of moral turpitude" (although given that he stole a magazine and a bus pass in an unarmed robbery, I'd have run that one up the flagpole). That would have been enough to deport him, except that a single crime of moral turpitude isn't enough if the person has been in the U.S. for more than five years. That must be the case with Coquico, because DHS had to try a different provision, one that allows deportation of any alien who has been convicted of two or more "crimes involving moral turpitude."

Turns out Coquico had been convicted of another crime in 2006: he had aimed a laser pointer at a police officer while both were at the Alameda County courthouse (for an undisclosed reason). This, DHS argued, was the second "crime involving moral turpitude." Sounds good to me, said an immigration judge.

It may be news to you that it's actually a crime to aim a laser pointer at someone, but it is in some states. Well, just aiming it isn't enough—you have to do it "in a threatening manner with the specific intent to cause a reasonable person fear of bodily harm." The concern—I hope—is not that people might think you were shooting them with a laser gun, but rather that they might think you're about to shoot them with a real gun to which the laser is attached. It's only a misdemeanor, but if the person you lased is a cop, you could get six months to a year for this in California.

But the issue here wasn't whether it's a crime. It was whether it's a crime of moral turpitude. Your government, of course, argued that it is. And also of course, the DHS administrative-law judge agreed with DHS. Specifically, she agreed that doing this was morally turpitudinous because lasers "are insidious instruments normally used for criminal purposes," and that merely possessing them was "indicative of a readiness to do evil."

I assume she'll be horrified to find out there's one in her DVD player.

It's not clear whether the Board of Immigration Appeals signed on to the "evil laser" rationale. It seems to have affirmed instead on the grounds that this dastardly crime involved a police officer and "a device which gives the appearance or facade of the use of a deadly weapon." But in an opinion by one of the court's more conservative judges, the Ninth Circuit reversed.

First of all, it pointed out, you guys aren't even reading the laser-pointer law correctly. It doesn't say a laser pointer is or resembles a "deadly weapon." It covers both "laser scopes" and "laser pointers," and whatever you might say about the former, the latter—which you can buy at any office-supply store, for God's sake—does not resemble a "deadly weapon." More to the point, this law makes it a crime to try to scare somebody with a laser whether or not they are actually scared or even notice that you did it. It is not, therefore, vile, base, or any of that other stuff to do this, the court held. If bad, it's no worse than simple assault. Or, in judge-speak, the law "can be violated by conduct that bears a striking resemblance to non-turpitudinous simple assault, and little similarity to turpitudinous terrorizing threats." It therefore doesn't describe "a crime of moral turpitude."

Why is this worth 1000+ words? First, lasers. Second, this is the kind of ridiculous overreach that we see DHS and DOJ making all the time these days. Do I care whether this guy gets deported? No. Do I think government lawyers should be required to interpret criminal laws in a way that makes sense? Yes. Also, do I think they should be allowed to seal the record in a case like this—which they have? No. Why is this record sealed? It is tempting to say they sealed it so they wouldn't be embarrassed by their "evil laser" argument.

So that's what I'm saying.

23 Jun 07:18

actionables: Because news cameras are apparently only there if...



















actionables:

Because news cameras are apparently only there if looting and protests are mentioned, here are some shots from the march for peace in Charleston yesterday. In case you missed it, thousands marched to Ravenel Bridge, holding hands in prayer and unity. Yet this doesn’t make news, but an interview with the killer’s friend does. all photos from Twitter

23 Jun 06:50

(31) Tumblr

by ladybird13
22 Jun 09:37

This just in: women don’t exist to entertain you

by Stabbity

I have some truly horrifying news for the snivelling manchildren of the world: women do not exist to entertain you. In other news, there is basically always something to get angry about on Kinky & Popular. Specifically the comments on this writing titled “None of your fucking business.”

For people who don’t do Fetlife, this woman had the apparently ridiculous idea that she had the right to exist in public without some asshole hassling her, and when said asshole deliberately made her uncomfortable (spare me the bullshit about teh poor socially awkward mans. Actual socially awkward people are horrified by the idea of making someone uncomfortable and would’ve apologized profusely and then probably run away to have a serious bout of self-loathing in private), she told him that her name was “None of your fucking business.”

Cue the snivelling manchildren in the comments clutching their pearls about how meeeeeean that woman was and how creepypants was just trying to be nice and make conversation and why do women have to be such bitches about existing in public without being harassed and the human race is totally going to die out if creepy sacks of shit can’t badger strange women for no good reason (no, thinking someone has nice tits is not a good reason).

First of all, the idea that some asshole who wasn’t even there knows how to handle a situation better than the woman who actually experienced it is some serious bullshit. If you weren’t there, you don’t know what sort of subtle or not remotely subtle signals she was getting that made her think that the man harassing her was not safe to talk to. By saying that she should have handled it differently, you woman hating sacks of shit are saying that women can’t be trusted to make even the smallest decisions about how to respond to people harassing us. And then you worthless wastes of space turn around and blame us for being raped. How exactly are we simultaneously too stupid to tell a nice guy from a creepy motherfucker and at the same time psychically able to tell people would commit rape from people who wouldn’t?

I have another horrifying revelation for the misogynistic assclowns of the world: women have different experiences from men. What looks and feels harmless to you is fucking scary to us. Sure, you wouldn’t be scared if a man who was your size or smaller came up and asked “What’s your name, sweetheart?” Now imagine you’re an average sized woman, with an average woman’s upper body strength talking to someone a foot taller than you with 40 pounds of muscle on you. Would you feel safe knowing that he either doesn’t care that he’s making you uncomfortable or is actively enjoying it? Would you feel safe knowing that if he wants to hurt you or drag you away there’s nothing you can do to stop him?

But god forbid you should think about what it’s like to be a woman. That might cause you to question the apparently sacred belief that women exist to make you pathetic sacks of shit feel special. Somehow, I make it through my day without expecting men to stop whatever it is they’re doing and stroke my ego. Somehow, I make it through my day without assuming that men owe me their attention for absolutely nothing in return. If you can’t do the same, then I am a better, stronger, more worthwhile person than you are. Shape up, shitstain. If you think you’re better than me because you’re a man, BE BETTER. Grow a sense of self-worth that doesn’t rely on me patting you on the head like a puppy and telling you you’re the bestest guy in the whole world. Be interesting enough that I would ever choose to talk to of my own free will. Make my life better, not worse if you’re going to interact with me. Stop acting like a fucking two year old and assuming the world revolves around you. Grow the fuck up and learn to deal with women who are *gasp* be better than you at something.

Or at least be honest and admit that you are less than me and always will be.

22 Jun 09:37

The Rumpus Interview with Andrew Ervin

by James Tate Hill

It’s probably fitting that a novel titled Burning Down George Orwell’s House doesn’t focus much on the author of classroom classics like Animal Farm and Nineteen Eighty-Four. Instead, Andrew Ervin’s debut novel centers on Ray Welter, a Chicago adman whose life has come apart and who flees the grid for Jura, the Scottish island where the writer born Eric Blair penned Nineteen Eighty-Four. More comedy than tragedy, Ervin’s novel shifts back and forth between the events that led to Welter’s self-imposed exile—let’s just say the SUV industry likes Ray more than he likes them—and his attempt to hit the reset button on his life in Scotland. Nearly half a century separates Ray Welter from Don Draper, that other adman fighting for his soul in the soul-stunted field of advertising, but in many ways Ray is even less equipped to navigate the fast-changing world around him.

From a young age, Ray Welter identified with Nineteen Eighty-Four, a connection that deepens as the dystopian parable seems to explain his capitalistic, increasingly joyless career. His marriage, too, is on the rocks, but life doesn’t get any easier or better when he arrives on Jura. The natives treat their visitor only a little less kindly than the local cuisine treats his stomach. Throw in a feisty, underage daughter of one of these locals, that daughter’s belligerent father, and what might or might not be the local werewolf Blair/Orwell himself alluded to in one of his letters, and that grid Ray left behind in Chicago doesn’t seem half as bad.

Andrew Ervin’s collection of linked novellas, Extraordinary Renditions (Coffee House Press), was named a Publishers Weekly Best Book of 2010, and The Millions called it one of that year’s most underrated books. While preparing for the May release of Burning Down George Orwell’s House, the launch party for which will feature a performance by the Dead Milkmen, Andrew answered some questions via email about Big Brother, the double-edged sword of technology, the enduring relevance of Nineteen Eighty-Four, and how to acquire the taste for Scotch.

***

The Rumpus: One of the reasons Nineteen Eighty-Four lingers in the public consciousness, if not in the classroom, is terms like “Big Brother” and “Thought Police,” which many use, I’m sure, without connecting it to literature. In fact, themes of government surveillance could be more relevant now than they were when Orwell’s novel was published—see Snowden, Edward or Act, Patriot. Is Big Brother bigger now than it once was, or does it just seem that way because of what technology makes possible?

Andrew Ervin: Every generation gets the Big Brother that its technology dictates. The ongoing transition from analog to digital technology is allowing for the collection of data and of metadata on a scale that was unthinkable in Orwell’s day. Only the tools have changed. The global war on terror (and what a perfectly Orwellian term that is) gave government agencies the opportunity to frame the debate as Privacy v. Security. With all those supposed evildoers out there who “hate our freedom” (whatever that means) we’re being told that we can be safe or we can have privacy, but we can’t have both and that’s of course absurd. If we’re determined to put things in simplistic terms, the debate would be better understood as Liberty v. Tyranny, but even that formulation is missing something important. Big Brother has exactly as much authority as we grant him.

Rumpus: The role we play in our own surveillance, this complicity, is a big part of Ray Welter’s predicament, isn’t it?

Ervin: Ray Welter believes that he’s facing a very similar choice: he can stay on the grid and have his every keystroke recorded or he can escape to a remote island where there’s limited electricity and fend for himself. What happens—and I don’t want to spoil anything here—is that those simple dichotomies (Privacy v. Security or Liberty v. Tyranny or Evildoers v. Good Guys) prove to be less than clear cut. My novel does not have a specific moral or political agenda, but it does try to question the very notion of binary logic. Limiting ourselves to either/or thinking is itself a form of self-imposed tyranny. I suspect that Orwell understood that.

Rumpus: Ray isn’t a writer, nor does he aspire to be, when he rents the house where Orwell wrote his most famous novel. But a lot of writers will identify with his need for isolation and his struggle to extricate himself from the world of iPhones and constant contact. Many writers I know, for whatever reason, seem more resistant to technology than the average person. Does this match your experience? Why do you think so many of us are Luddites?

Ervin: It would be very easy to blame “technology” for my inability to concentrate for long periods of time or for spending too many days in a row away from my writing, but that’s ultimately a cop-out. I’m responsible for my own inactions. When we try to specify what we mean by “technology,” however, it becomes a terribly flimsy excuse for some bad habits. My eyeglasses are a form of technology as is the process that makes the printing of books possible. The question, then, is one of categorization.

Are some technologies (Facebook, Twitter, Donkey Kong) detrimental to the writing life? Only if we allow them to be. There are all sorts of romantic notions about clacking away on a typewriter and drawing ink into a fountain pen. We—writers, I mean—are terrific at fetishizing the past. I just had bookplates printed for my home library. I understand the nostalgia for old-timey ways of doing things, I really do, but I also love the wondrous technologies at my disposal. We each need to find the specific tools that work for us.

The technologies I personally use change depending on what I’m writing. For this novel, I wrote the first draft by hand because notebooks and pencils were what my protagonist had at his disposal and they helped me get into his head. Also, I wrote it on graph paper because that grid on every page reminded me of the social structure from which he was escaping. The most valuable writing time, however, was when I transcribed those pages into Microsoft Word, which allowed me to edit easily. It would be silly of me, now, to bemoan the evil effects of technology. As with Privacy v. Security, the generally assumed formulation of Technology v. Artistic Freedom is too limiting for my tastes.

Rumpus: Many writers seem to be embracing social media. You’re on Twitter. Have you found that technology detrimental to your creative work?

Ervin: Social media presents detriments and advantages to my creative work. The reason I got on Twitter in the first place was because I needed to better understand Welter’s wired world, and I planned to get off again after the book got published, but it’s a tool that has helped me find so many interesting people and new ideas that I could not have possibly discovered on my own. I follow a lot of video game developers, and that whole world has inspired my own thinking about narrative in countless ways. I do own a smart phone now, but it’s not very smart. It’s an Android and not so easy to use, so there’s not a great temptation to spend a great deal of energy tweeting.

Rumpus: Have you had to strike a balance to separate the space for social media from the space in which you write?

Ervin: Yes, I suppose I do keep those spaces somewhat separate, but they’re close. My writing room is a newly converted attic. For most of my creative work, I use an early-generation iMac which is stripped of everything but a few word-processing programs and a Dropbox link. That desk faces out the window and overlooks the Schuylkill Valley. My wife and I live in a northwest Philadelphia rowhouse, but other than the attached neighbor on one side we’re surrounded by trees and a huge community garden. It’s an oasis in the city and if I squint it can feel removed from the technological realm. In that same room, though, I have a drafting table for writing and drawing by hand and also another desk with a newer iMac, which I use for other projects, like teaching prep and World of Warcraft and the occasional interview.

Rumpus: Since you brought up video games, your next project involves them, does it not? What is something about narrative you’ve learned from video games?

Ervin: I’ve signed a contract with Basic Books for a nonfiction project about video games and aesthetics. The transition from analog to digital technologies is an obsession of mine. Both Burning Down George Orwell’s House and Extraordinary Renditions look at this change, so to start nailing down my own thinking in systematic and critical terms is very exciting. The digital revolution could end up being as radical and far-reaching as the Industrial Revolution, but because we’re right in the middle of it there’s no way to see the scope or fully understand the eventual effects. One theory I’m working on is that the short history of video games, from Tennis for Two (1958) to Bloodborne (2015), can serve as a way of beginning to understand the post-human world. Also, the kinds of interactivity insisted upon by literature and by video games are different, sure, but I’m curious to see how they’re similar. The book is still very much a work in progress. I’m spending a lot of time with the paintings of René Magritte right now. That pixelated tennis net in Pong (1972) isn’t a tennis net any more than Magritte’s pipe is a pipe.

Rumpus: Returning to the digital-free zone of Jura, many readers might covet the serenity of an isolated rental house in the United Kingdom, but Scotland as it’s portrayed in your novel is hardly romanticized. Ray’s nausea is established in the first sentence, and the absolute hell he’s given by some of the locals makes Ray’s retreat feel like another shitstorm from which he needs to escape. On behalf of the Scottish tourism industry, is there anything you’d like to take back about the fair isle of Jura?

Ervin: Shortly after I finished graduate school, I took a two-year position down at Louisiana State University. What could have been the greatest gig in the world turned into a bit of a nightmare. I should have known things were going to be challenging when, shortly after I arrived, Hurricane Gustav blew through Baton Rouge. That storm didn’t get as much national attention as Katrina, for instance, and with good cause, but it did knock out power to most of the city for over a week. Louisiana is no joke any time of year, but summer’s a particularly bad time to lose the A/C. (That is another technology I wholeheartedly embrace.) On a basic level, living without power for a few days helped rid me of any romantic notions about the serenity of life off the grid. It definitely made me reconsider some of my own first-world assumptions. The idea of escaping from social media and voluntarily getting away from it all could only come from someone like me or Ray Welter who is very privileged. Maybe that’s true too of the disdain for technology. It’s easier to hate Twitter, even as some stand-in for “technology” in general, when one has consistent electricity and clean running water in the house.

I’ve never been to the Isle of Jura. The fictional setting I’ve created is more a representation of one American man’s (impossible) idyllic escape than an attempt to describe the actual place. That said, I have wondered many times how welcome I will be there after this book is published. The closest I’ve come was the ferry port over on Islay, next door, where the novel begins. The rest of it is complete fiction. The main reason I’ve stayed away is to maintain my plausible deniability: I’ve never tried to create a realistic portrait of that place. (And portraits are unlucky, right?) I’ve never met the people or been to the hotel and so there’s zero possibility that my characters are based on real residents. I’d certainly like to visit soon if I’m still welcome.

Rumpus: Your novel’s epigraph quotes a letter from Eric Blair referencing a werewolf on Jura. What all that means won’t be spoiled here, but it sets the stage nicely for Ray’s unpredictable stay on the island. If there’s one predictable aspect of his tenure, however, it’s the copious amount of Scotch Ray consumes. The reader is left with the sense that the author has some expertise in the matter of this particular export. For readers less well-versed in Scotch, who only know, to paraphrase Orwell’s other classic, single-malt good, blended bad, what kind of advice can you give Scotch beginners?

Ervin: Even Orwell was seduced by the comforts of binary thinking. Yes—I certainly did some extensive “research” on this particular topic. The flavors in scotch result from many different factors, as Welter discovers for himself, but the most important one is geography. There’s no separating where it’s made and how it tastes. In addition to the scotch produced on Jura, I’m a big fan of the Ardbeg and Bowmore. Both come from Islay, but they taste wildly different. Ardbeg’s distillery is right on the water and you can taste the peat smoke and sea air in every sip. The town of Bowmore—one of my favorite places I visited in Scotland—sits in the crook of a bay, so the conditions are a bit softer and the resulting scotch has some of the sweeter characteristics associated with the Highlands distilleries. I also like the lowland Auchentoshan a great deal, but it’s tough to find here in Philadelphia.

All that said, since I finished writing the book I’ve been (mostly) giving sobriety a try and I find it very appealing. After I submitted my final edits, I went to the doctor to get my liver checked out and was surprised to find out that it’s perfectly healthy. Still, I’m enjoying taking it easy on myself. My next novel will need to be about healthy living and exercise.

***

Author photo © Angelica Bautista.

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