Shared posts

18 May 16:30

Mistranslation: Moving Beyond Trauma Through Language

by Nika Knight

I might tell you that I speak German, but I won’t say that I’m fluent. I can read a newspaper article and hold a conversation on your day, the weather, your opinion on Angela Merkel. But a bureaucratic form or a passage from Schiller will stymie me. I moved to Berlin having only taken German 101 and 102, and so I can also never tell you when I’m using a modal verb or the Präteritum, the simple past tense. I first learned German while living there, mainly from parties and conversations with stoned flatmates, an internship at a magazine where I cold-called business owners and mostly got shouted at. But I would not call myself fluent. I can’t understand a parliamentary debate and anything written before 1930 requires a dictionary.

Still, my German comes out in strange places. I dream often in German, phrases and conversations. I dream that I am looking for the German word for something.

We say “there must be a German word for that” when we land on a particularly nuanced, but universal feeling — arriving at your car to realize you’ve left your keys in your apartment; the half-dreaming moment before you fall asleep when your stomach suddenly drops as if you’ve fallen, and you startle awake. But in fact English has tens of thousands more words than German does; a student I lived with in Berlin was shocked when I told him about the English-speaker’s assumption that German was the language with all the most perfect words that our own language lacks. German doesn’t have many words, to be truthful, it just allows for mash-ups. Thus, the wildly bereft sensation of being alone in the forest, which we must capture in that lengthy phrase, is expressed in a single word: Waldeinsamkeit Wald, forest, and einsamkeit, loneliness. The concept arises from the tradition of German Romanticism, and therefore Waldeinsamkeit not only alludes to what it’s like to be alone in the German woods, sun-dappled leaves gleaming in the silence of the Black Forest, but also evokes Beethoven’s 9th, Rilke’s appeal to the angels. A culture’s history and its literature are tightly bound within its words.

Read more Mistranslation: Moving Beyond Trauma Through Language at The Toast.

12 Jun 17:59

Hare Relatable

by John Herrman

Be the hare! Or, wait, be the snowboarder? The drone? Be……. the avalanche?

This has been Friday Inspirations.

02 Jun 13:50

Trolls Professional

by John Herrman

“One account was called ‘I Am Ass.’ Ass had a Twitter account, an Instagram account, multiple Facebook accounts and his own website. In his avatars, Ass was depicted as a pair of cartoon buttocks with an ugly, smirking face. He filled his social-media presences with links to news articles, along with his own commentary. Ass had a puerile sense of humor and only a rudimentary grasp of the English language. He also really hated Barack Obama. Ass denounced Obama in posts strewn with all-caps rants and scatological puns. One characteristic post linked to a news article about an ISIS massacre in Iraq, which Ass shared on Facebook with the comment: ‘I’m scared and farting! ISIS is a monster awakened by Obama when he unleashed this disastrous Iraq war!'” Read Adrian Chen on the professional nightmare mercenaries of Russia’s Internet Research Agency.

29 May 19:24

The Mind of a Teen Bot

by Hallie Bateman


(For background.)








01 Jun 18:31

Tools To Notify You When Dependencies Update

by Chris Coyier

Any given website has, approximately, a whole bunch of dependencies. Take CodePen. The site is Ruby on Rails. Both Ruby and Rails are actively developed, versioned dependencies. There are a good 30+ gems in the project that help us do different internal things (e.g. process Sass into CSS) and user-facing things (e.g. process user-generated Markdown). Those gems are versioned dependencies. Not to mention front-end libraries we use. Not to mention Not to mention server-level software. Not to mention Node stuff.

It's a good idea to keep those things up-to-date (new features! security updates!), but also to do it on your own terms so you know what's changing and can test accordingly. But how do you know a new version of a dependency has been released? Let us count the ways.

Manually check

You can always just, you know, look. Perhaps not super efficient, but it does the trick.

In the case of gems, you can run gem outdated (or bundle outdated) to see a list of all the gems you have that are behind. gem update will update all of them (probably a bit heavy-handed for most apps), so gem update gemname is useful for hitting just the ones you want to update.

In the case of node, there is also a npm outdated command to see what is old. Then there is a trick where you can change the dependency version in the `package.json` file to "*" then running npm update --save. Probably even better, there is a package, npm-check-updates, specifically for helping with this process.

If you're using Bower, there is bower-list which can help you see which of your dependencies are outdated, but it lists everything, not just the outdated ones. Looks like they are discussing improving that.

Sometimes the software you are using has a system for updates already. For instance in WordPress, they are very clear in the admin area when plugins, themes, or WordPress itself needs an update and allows you to do that right from the admin area itself. But WordPress won't tell you if the version of PHP your server runs is out of date, or if your OpenSSL software is old, or if the grid framework you used to build your theme has a new version out.

Subscribe to releases via RSS

GitHub repos have a releases section (example). You can get a feed of those releases at a URL like this:


Subscribe to that in your feed reader of choice for notifications.

A feed reader isn't the only way to consume RSS though. You could, for example, get fancy and use IFTTT to send you an iOS notification or an email when a new RSS entry is published (meaning a new version of a dependency has been published).

Sometimes it makes sense to have one RSS feed for all this too. You can use Yahoo Pipes to combine RSS feeds pretty easily.

Screen scrape

If the dependency you use isn't on GitHub, or otherwise has no feed or practical way to watch it, you could rely on scraping the screen of wherever URL it lives at on the web to check for changes. The Chrome extension Page Monitor could help with that.

Use a Service

Sibbell is one that came recommended when I was asking around about this. I can vouch for it. We've been using it at CodePen and it's been working great.

You don't have to change anything, just star or watch the projects that you use on GitHub.
When a new release is published, Sibbell will let you know.

VersionEye is another one that works a slightly different way:

VersionEye shows you all supported project files in all branches for all of your repositories. After parsing your project file you can immediately see which dependencies are outdated.

VersionEye currently supports these 10 package managers: Composer, Bundler, PIP, NPM, Bower, Leiningen, CocoaPods, Maven, SBT and Gradle.

Along those same lines, there is also Gemnasium:

Gemnasium parses your project's dependencies and notifies you when new versions are released or they need to be updated.


You can ... be notified of new releases to keep your applications secure and up to date.

Fair Warning

Always be careful granting access to your GitHub account to third parties. If you have private repos, they are probably private for a good reason. Any security breach at those third parties and access to those repos could end up in the wrong hands. In the case of Sibbell, it's easy enough to create a GitHub account just for it and star the stuff you want to watch through that. It's harder with the services that watch your dependency files in your real repos.

I'm not saying don't use these things, I'm saying use good judgement and team communication about stuff like this.

What do you do?

Have a homegrown method? Use one of these? Do nothing?

Tools To Notify You When Dependencies Update is a post from CSS-Tricks

28 May 13:35

22+ International Borders Around The World

by Lina D.

Netherlands And Belgium

Netherlands And Belgium


Norway And Sweden

Norway And Sweden


Argentina, Brazil And Paraguay

Argentina, Brazil And Paraguay


USA And Mexico

USA And Mexico


Haiti And The Dominican Republic

Haiti And The Dominican Republic


Bolivia And Brasil

Bolivia And Brasil


Macau Drives On The Left Side Of The Road, Mainland China Drives On The Right, So This Is What They Do At The Border

Macau Drives On The Left Side Of The Road, Mainland China Drives On The Right, So This Is What  They Do At The Border


Spain And Portugal

Spain And Portugal


Poland And Ukraine

Poland And Ukraine


USA And Mexico

USA And Mexico


The Woman At Right Is Standing In The Lithuanian Village Of Norviliskes To Speak With Her Belarusian Relatives Across The Fence On The Border Between Belarus And Lithuania

The Woman At Right Is Standing In The Lithuanian Village Of Norviliskes To Speak With Her Belarusian Relatives Across The Fence On The Border Between Belarus And Lithuania


Russia And Belarus

Russia And Belarus


Slovakia, Austria And Hungary

Slovakia, Austria And Hungary

Residents Of Naco, Arizona And Naco, Mexico Play Volleyball Match Over Fence Between USA And Mexico

Residents Of Naco, Arizona And Naco, Mexico Play Volleyball Match Over Fence Between USA And Mexico


India And Pakistan Border Visible From Space

India And Pakistan Border Visible From Space

Germany And Czech Republic Showcase Two Different Approaches To Bark Beetle Infestation – Silvicultural Intervention Vs. Intentional Neglect

Germany And Czech Republic Showcase Two Different Approaches To Bark Beetle Infestation - Silvicultural Intervention Vs. Intentional Neglect


Egypt And Israel

Egypt And Israel


Zipline Connects Spain And Portugal

Zipline Connects Spain And Portugal


Point Where Borders Of Germany, The Netherlands And Belgium Converge Near City Of Aachen

Point Where Borders Of Germany, The Netherlands And Belgium Converge Near City Of Aachen


Sweden And Norway

Sweden And Norway


Denmark And Sweden

Denmark And Sweden


Usa And Canada

Usa And Canada


17 May 02:00

Feature: Backtrack By Track: The Drones - 'Wait Long By The River...'

by Mess+Noise

Backtrack By Track: The Drones - 'Wait Long By The River...'

Ten years on from Wait Long By The River And The Bodies Of Your Enemies Will Float By, GARETH LIDDIARD looks back on the band's landmark second LP. Band photo by ANDREW WATSON.

'Shark Fin Blues'

This song is reliable like a good dog. When we, or our audience, suck, we can play this and it’s like a reset button. It was written in Collingwood over the top of a Karen Dalton banjo tune, then transplanted onto a bunch of other chords. The intro is a fudged Townes Van Zandt riff and the outro is something Rui [Pereira] improvised, and I remembered.


The title is poking fun at pop music's penchant for repeating "baby" over and over all day long. I used one of the verses again later in a song on the next album just to see if anyone noticed and thought I was running out of ideas. Some people did, even though it was parked between a bunch of 10 minute songs with forty thousand verses each.

'The Best You Can Believe In'

This has the most straight-forward drum beat, but all I hear in this recording is Chris [Strybosch]'s style. Contrary to popular belief, being a real musician is more style than anything. Substance is for tossers. Style is like handwriting, if anyone remembers that. Some people's handwriting just has a certain something you recognise and you like it for that. Rui’s doing a Jimmy Page with a violin bow and Steve [Hesketh]'s outro is just right for a song as burned out and mean as this. Our early aesthetic was pretty much Mad Max's XB Falcon Interceptor: stripped back, pissed off and fuck you. Max’s XB now resides in a Florida car museum alongside the Bat Mobile, Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, Kit and the Munster's coach. Wait Long By The River... is available in shops.


We got pretty wasted before we recorded this and then improvised a bunch of weird shit and then forgot the chorus. At the end of the song on the master tapes you can hear Chris saying “we sound like a bunch of pissed idiots” which was an epiphany of sorts. We re-recorded it years later with the missing part back in there but this version still pretty good. It has Shepard scales and synth and violin and is too depressing and strange and real for most people, which is cool. Fi [Kitschin] is playing piano and singing along. The next time she played keys was about eight years later accompanying Patti Smith at the Sydney Opera House during 'Smells Like Teen Spirit'. She’s picky.

'You Really Don’t Care'

I used an Octavia pedal in this and there’s a line asking Jimi Hendrix if he would have bothered being radical if he’d known people would have mostly been too frightened and dull to do anything except copy him. That’s a big problem in rock ‘n’ roll, now more than ever. Most big leaps forward in rock ‘n’ roll have been African American and why wouldn’t you leap forward if your past was that bad. White people have a harder time with innovation because there’s always the temptation to be fond of the good ‘ole days and be retro. It’s like an opiate, just pick your favourite era and copy it. I’m not saying we didn’t ever do that but we always got some sausage in the sizzle. Or soysage at least.

'Sitting On The Edge Of The Bed Cryin''

This sounds like it was recorded inside somebody’s head. I can actually remember Loki putting the finishing touches on the mix and both of us thinking, "what the fuck is this?". We always could’ve done an Einstürzende Neubauten and gone totally weird with everything but it seemed like a better idea to pervert a form from the inside out and launch a surprise attack. This is a good example of us doing that.

'The Freedom In The Loot'

I like this one ‘cause me and Rui channel our best Tony Iommi and Johnny Thunders simultaneously. And it’s about some stupid shit: The two best English words are ‘love’ and ‘fuck.’ One is noble, while the other is always useful anywhere, but their reputations are wildly dissimilar. Arts and sciences are best known for trying to glean the meaning of life. No one knows this but I am the world’s greatest artist and an amateur scientist and I reckon death gives life value by making life finite, while fucking makes it all possible in the first place and gives us something to strive for in the interim. Love just fools you into fucking and nurturing things that eventually fuck or promote being fucked. Love turns what is basically a pretty gross and weird genetic trick into our main reason to live which is one of the universe's best jokes. This song is like not laughing at that joke.

'Another Rousing Chorus You Idiots!!!!'

Some people say the second last song is always the dud but this is weird, evil and depressing. 5 stars!

'This Time'

This wraps it all up nicely and yet leaves things open for the sequel.


The Drones celebrate the ten year anniversary of Wait Long By The River..., along with a preview of their upcoming album, at Sydney Opera House as part of Vivid LIVE on Sunday May 24. Ticket details here.

05 May 13:00

Leaving New York and Also Technology

by Benjamin Hart


It’s hard to pinpoint the moment when New York and also technology started to feel like such a chore. Maybe it was when I urinated in a slim-fit adult diaper while waiting in line for the iPhone 4 for ninety-three hours and pronounced the experience “worth it,” or when I found myself testing out tweets on my wife during foreplay, or when a rat scurried across my face and into my mouth while I was checking Facebook and waiting for a C train that never arrived. But a few weeks ago, on a gray April day, as I ambled by the Duane Reade where my favorite dive bar McHurlihan’s once stood, while joylessly scrolling through my Twitter feed in between reading a saved Instapaper article about how to live in the moment, I realized I had to leave New York and stop using the Internet for a while.

When I moved to Williamsburg in 2002, scraping by in the center of the universe seemed like a grand adventure. I’d drink until dawn at places like The Station, Whirlybird, and JJ’s Good Time Emporium on the Lower East Side (now closed); I’d do lines off the grimy concrete of McCarren Park Pool (now clean); and then take the L to Bushwick and try not to get mugged on my way to a warehouse party (now safe). Instead of staring at my phone compulsively, I’d smoke a cigarette. Inside. I didn’t yet know what a “meme” was. I became passing acquaintances with the guys from TV on the Radio, but I didn’t feel the irrepressible need to share such information with everyone, because social networking hadn’t yet transformed us all into greedy approval-seekers. When I began face-to-face conversations with “I know the guys from TV on the Radio,” people looked impressed, and that was enough for me.

My neighborhood has changed, too. As I occasionally glanced away from my glowing screen to avoid bumping into the twenty-five-year-old hedge funders moving in, I noticed the local color of the place draining out like an Instagram filter. Bobby’s, the mom-and-pop pharmacy that was frequently out of toilet paper but nonetheless charming, was forced to move to Jersey City after its rapacious landlords jacked up the rent a hundred and thirty thousand percent. (The Walgreens that moved in always has toilet paper.) And Zgliewzki, the Polish diner everyone loved (though nobody I know had ever been there) shuttered to make way for Polski, a modern take on Slavic cuisine featuring a forty-two-dollar ramen kielbasa stuffed with sustainably farmed foie gras.

More importantly, my wife and I wanted a family, and thanks to my crippling addiction to Zillow and the Styles section, I knew all too well that a two-bedroom apartment was way out of reach. Friends who had once shuddered at the thought of leaving the city spoke of a happier, healthier lifestyle elsewhere. Some of them even moved to Los Angeles, which they reported didn’t suck after all. During the fifteen-month winter, I became so consumed with jealousy over California Instagram feeds that I deleted the app for seven minutes. The last straw came in February, when, while waiting in a Trader Joe’s line that snaked around the block twice to buy conflict-free hummus, I learned via Periscope that my co-worker Steve had been selected for Amazon drone-delivery beta testing. I teared up and then stepped directly in a giant slush puddle to get into my one-dollar UberPool ride from Chelsea to Eastern East Williamsburg.

That night, my wife and I began scouring real estate listings, and almost immediately warmed to Satchel-on-Hudson, a lovely village two hours north of the city. For a quarter million, which would have gotten us a bed bug-infested closet in the city, we purchased a ramshackle fourteen-bedroom house with a pool, a tennis court, a bridle path, and even former butler quarters, which we could rent out on Airbnb. We have two Priuses, two washers and dryers, a dishwasher, and total peace of mind. Life out here is placid and wonderful, and has afforded me the time and space for things I could never do in the city, like jarring my own salsa and not living in New York. Our Japanese garden is actually planted with the books I told myself I didn’t have time to read. I’m most proud of the War and Peace cacti, which is flourishing.

The same week we closed the sale on our place in Williamsburg, I announced my plan to leap off the grid to everyone I knew, posting lengthy farewells on Facebook, Twitter, LinkedIn, Sina Weibo, WhatsApp, GroupMe, Adult Friend Finder, and John Wick message boards. I explained that I wouldn’t be responding to any electronic communication for an indeterminate period of time, so anyone who wanted to get in touch with me would have to pick up the phone and call, or better yet, send me an old-fashioned letter, since they’re inherently more special than emails.

I thought my craving for instant gratification and the big city would be unbearable. And for the first week, it really was. I desperately missed the convenience of email, the immediacy of Twitter, the diversity of the different kind of white gentrifiers on my block, the pizza. And I admit to relapsing once or twice—one Saturday I just took off for New York with nothing but a selfie stick in my hand and the wind at my back before pulling myself together just ahead of the George Washington Bridge. But something funny happened around ten days into my experiment: I slowed down and stopped caring so much. I began not to miss the pinging and the bleeping and the blooping of life in the twenty-four-hour information cycle. Gradually, I even became more attuned to the rhythms of everyday life. In the old days, I’d automatically reach for my phone as soon as I woke up. Now, I meditate for fifteen minutes, then do some recreational roof-thatching while chipping away at Emoji Dick. I feel in tune with my surroundings in new and unexpected ways. Case in point: as I was writing this, a red bird sat on a tree branch outside my office window (I actually have three offices in this house) and I really looked at it. I think it was a robin.

My friends haven’t abandoned me because I’m offline. Just a day after signing off, I got a phone call from my buddy Nick. I had mostly kept up with his life through social networks, so it was nice to actually hear his voice. He told me that his marriage is on the rocks, and that he feels unappreciated at work. Now that’s the kind of thing you don’t get from a status update. My marriage has changed, too. Instead of arguing about what to watch on Netflix, my wife and I argue about which obscure Italian neorealist film to rent from the adorable local video store (we finally settled on The Rock), or which beautiful hiking trail to conquer, or whether to have kids now that we need to fill up so many rooms in our house.

It’s now been a month since I left New York and quit the Internet, and I don’t regret what I did for a second. In fact, I want people to know everything about my life now, but it’s hard since I lost all my followers and nobody gives a shit what some piece of shit from upstate has to say. That’s why I’m writing this letter on parchment paper, and that’s why I’m having it hand-delivered to every major media outlet in America. Because you can quit the city and you can quit the Internet, but you can never quit telling people how much better you are than them.

Photo by Andy Atzert

30 Apr 03:10

These Spectacular ‘Guardian’ Parodies Deserve All Of The Walkleys

by Meg Watson

In 1921, editor CP Scott wrote an essay to mark the centenary of his newspaper the Manchester Guardian — a publication which would later become known simply as The Guardian. Having then been at the helm for nearly 50 years, Scott used the opportunity to reflect on the nature of journalism and what he viewed as its crucial role in the public sphere.

“It is much more than a business; it is an institution; it reflects and it influences the life of a whole community; it may affect even wider destinies. It is, in its way, an instrument of government,” he wrote with staggering wisdom and an even more impressive beard.

Amidst all this sprawling discussion of moral values, ideals and ethics, the essay has become historic for one particular sentiment: “Comment is free, but facts are sacred”. And today, nearly a full century later, those words live on in the paper’s current form. The ‘Comment is Free’ section houses the arguments of hundreds of talented writers aside a staunch portrait of the legendary CP Scott; a honourable vision carried forth through generations.

Now, internet superhero and A-grade human Dan Nolan has fixed all this. In a fit of white-hot genius, this Australian legend has this week successfully tweaked the Guardian‘s age-old tradition to better fit in to our current era of blistering hot takes.

Please send all of the Walkleys to Mr Nolan c/o












FYI Dan Nolan is the same guy who brought you Stop Tony Meow. You can nominate him for Australian of the Year over here.

28 Apr 15:41

20+ Dog Best Friends That Can’t Be Separated

by Viktorija G.

A Little Kiss

A Little Kiss


Come On, Buddy, Let’s Take A Picture

Come On, Buddy, Let's Take A Picture


Dog Hug

Dog Hug


My Friend’s Dogs Think They Are Going To The Vet When In Reality They Are Headed To The Park

My Friend's Dogs Think They Are Going To The Vet When In Reality They Are Headed To The Park





Harlow And Indiana

Harlow And Indiana


Best Friends Forever

Best Friends Forever


Best Friends Forever

Best Friends Forever


Pit Bull And A Chihuahua Who Got Adopted Together

Pit Bull And A Chihuahua Who Got Adopted Together


Like Mother, Like Son

Like Mother, Like Son


We Were Worried They Wouldn’t Get Along

We Were Worried They Wouldn't Get Along


Senpai Kissed Me

Senpai Kissed Me


Cuddle Time

Cuddle Time





Doggy Totem

Doggy Totem





I Love You, Big Sister!

I Love You, Big Sister!


Two Apple Lovers

Two Apple Lovers


Three Best Friends: Harlow, Sage And Reese

Three Best Friends: Harlow, Sage And Reese


Hanging Out

Hanging Out


20 Apr 15:40

Show Old

by Alex Balk

Here’s a nice appreciation of “Father Ted,” one of the greatest “dumb funny” comedies of all time, to commemorate its twentieth anniversary.

14 Apr 23:00

Watch Poet Omar Musa Read Out The Best Love/Hate Letter To Australia You’ve Ever Heard

by Alex McKinnon

Queanbeyan slam poet, rapper and author Omar Musa has had a good year — his debut novel, ‘Here Come The Dogs’, met with widespread critical acclaim, was nominated for the Miles Franklin Literary Award in March and is getting its own US book tour, and poems like ‘My Generation’ have racked up tens of thousands of views on YouTube.

Now Musa has released a new video of a poem he often performs at poetry slams. ‘The Ranthem’ is an angry, poignant, passionate love/hate letter to a deeply imperfect country, a rail against apathy and wilful ignorance, and a challenge to anyone who professes to want real change: go fight for it.

27 Mar 19:00

by Anna Fitzpatrick
by Anna Fitzpatrick

The National Geographic has a piece on how swarming bats avoid crashing into each other:

A new study finds that the nocturnal creatures follow a few simple "traffic rules" to avoid midair collisions: The bats first home in on the positions of other bats using their built-in sonar, then follow the flight path of a leader bat—or wingman, as it were.

And, oh my god, the idea of little creepy bats following traffic rules is so adorable to me. I am imaging little bats staying in their own little bat lanes and stopping at their little bat four-way intersections to give the other little bats the right of way, and they all have little bat bumper stickers that say things like, "My other vehicle is the Batmobile" and "Bela Lugosi on Board" and "Honk if you love echolocation" and wait a second I think I just invented a kids' TV show.

12 Apr 18:00

Worlds first hologram protest held in Spain

by Jordan Freiman

It seems like we’ve mostly been using hologram technology to resurrect dead rappers, and while that’s a noble cause everyone can get behind, Spanish activists decided to move beyond musical entertainment and actually staged a protest in Madrid using holographic images.

The demonstrators were challenging a law that would make it illegal to protest in front of parliament buildings in Spain. The holograms were meant to be symbolic of the fact that once the law goes into effect in July, holograms will be the only legal way people would be able to show their dissent.

To become part of the protest, people had to let their faces be filmed by a webcam so that they could later be turned into the holographic projections.

While I commend the symbolism, I’m much more excited about the idea that in the future I’ll be able to show up to a protest while simultaneously doing other, more fun things thanks to the magic of holograms. The future is now people.

Spain: Hologram protest against Gag Law ongoing. #10AHologramasLibres #LeyesMordaza

— Samuel (@quilombosfera) April 10, 2015

Hologram protest in Madrid against the Gag Law. "As we can't protest as free citizens, we protest as free holograms."

— Giedre P. (@GiedreP) April 10, 2015

[CNN | Revolution News]

08 Apr 19:12

My 21 Aerial Drone Photos Would Be Totally Illegal Today

by amos.chapple

Between the introduction of drone technology, and today’s laws limiting or banning their use, there was a glorious period when you could fly a camera almost anywhere.

These are the results of two years travel with a quad-copter in my backpack.

More info:

The neatly arranged suburbs around Sagrada Familia, Barcelona


Octagonal city blocks and spacious street corners create a spectacular view. Al fresco beer & tapas in the town become such a delight.

The Hermitage Pavilion, St. Petersburg in autumn mist


I can’t see what the camera is seeing. People find that weird but I quite like the suspense of not knowing what I have until I get the camera in hand.

Clouds swirl through the pillars of Sagrat Cor Church, high on a hill above Barcelona


The star fort at Bourtange


Three centuries after the last cannonball was fired in anger at the fort, it now serves as a museum and center of a sleepy farming village in eastern Holland. The low, thick walls were designed to offset the pounding force of cannon-fire.

Church on Spilled blood, St. Petersburg


In the early days (2013) you could fly drones almost anywhere.

A ruined college inside the breakaway republic of Abkhazia


Ethnic cleansing went down here in the 90s and areas like this one (near Gali) are now a twilight zone of empty buildings and overgrown farmland.

St. Peter & Paul Cathedral, Petergof


With tiny little Christians walking round the base.

The Lotus Temple, dotted with pigeons at sunrise. Designed by an Iranian exile, the building serves as the centre of the Bahai’i faith in Delhi


Jama Masjid, the heart of Islam in India


Russia’s candy cane capital


Taj Mahal and gardens as the day’s first tourists trickle in


Security there is incredibly tight and I got busted.

The Taj Mahal in morning light


Morning over Maximum City


Known to the locals as a “Hill 3″ this knoll jutting above Mumbai’s northern slums is no more valuable than the land below. Access to running water, which the hill lacks, is more valuable than any view.

The windswept Liberty Statue, overlooking Budapest


Buda castle at night


The barge in the center of the river is packed full of fireworks. An hour after this pic they were sent booming into the night sky to celebrate the country’s national day.

The Katskhi Pillar, where a Georgian hermit has lived for the past twenty years to be “closer to god”


If you look close you can see the ladder. The terrifying ladder which I eventually had to climb.

Paris’ Sacré-Cœur glowing in a hazy sunrise


Worker and Kolkhoz Woman striding into the future that was


Built for the soviet pavilion of the 1937 world fair in Paris, the steel masterwork now stands in the suburbs of northern Moscow.

Moscow’s Hotel Ukraina lit up at dusk


This picture was taken as the Russian stock markets crashed on “Black Tuesday”. Little whiffs of panic could be felt on the street. Moscow never looked or felt more like Gotham city.

New Zealand, where only the hobbits have a hard time


Kauri Cliffs golf course.

A knot of fishing boats at the entrance to Sassoon Dock, Mumbai


30 Mar 18:45

Every TV news economic report ever, in one brilliant video

by Joe Veix

This clip, from Charlie Brooker’s Weekly Wipe, is a pretty ingenious and hilarious distillation of everything wrong with economic reports on TV news shows. It mocks the cliche format that attempts to make compelling television out of the massive, incomprehensible systems that fuck us all over daily. In other words, it’s pointing out the obvious: Economic reports are bullshit. Fun stuff.

The subtext here, if it even needs to be said, is that the attempt to make stock market figures into good television ultimately removes anything meaningful about them, making an economic report not dissimilar to a sports report, at the expense of, say, actually pointing out that our economic system itself is rigged and corrupt and renders humans worthless. It’s kind of like the Generic Brand Video, except way more depressing and hopeless.

[h/t Kottke]

23 Mar 16:00

A Dress To Die For

by Katy Kelleher
by Katy Kelleher

V0042226 Two skeletons dressed as lady and gentleman. Etching, 1862.
With gifts they shall be sent,
Gifts to the bride to spare their banishment,
Fine robings and a carcanet of gold.
Which raiment let her once but take, and fold
About her, a foul death that girl shall die
And all who touch her in her agony.
Such poison shall they drink, my robe and wreath!
Howbeit, of that no more. I gnash my teeth
Thinking on what a path my feet must tread
Thereafter. I shall lay those children dead—
Mine, whom no hand shall steal from me away!
Then, leaving Jason childless, and the day
As night above him, I will go my road
To exile, flying, flying from the blood
Of these my best-beloved, and having wrought
All horror, so but one thing reach me not,
The laugh of them that hate us.

Let it come!

Is it possible to read Medea without getting chills? Long before Taylor Swift faux-dismissed her haters, who are going to hate, hate, hate, Medea gnashed her teeth and shouted to the fates, “Let it come!” Rather than shake it off or preach a milquetoast revenge of living well, she razed her own precious life to the ground. Medea salted the earth and killed her children. She destroyed her cheating husband. And most importantly for this particular article, she murdered her competition with the trappings of royalty. She sent the princess Glauce a golden dress drenched in poison.

Medea was the first Greek play I ever read the whole way through, and that crazy queen has a special place in my heart. When she speaks, anger permeates every sentence; poison seems to seep from the page. Some of the anger is righteous—after all, she was just kicked out of her own home by her husband, Jason, who returns from war with a new, younger girl in tow. But Glauce doesn’t deserve death by dress any more than Medea’s children deserve to be slaughtered.

Medea is not the earliest mention of a poisoned dress in history, but it remains one of the most powerful in Western literature. Similar myths have shown up in ancient Hebrew, India, and modern Europe. According to one Greek myth, Hercules was killed by a poisoned robe that burned his skin and flayed him alive.

Like other narrative arcs that replay over and over in our fairy tales and myths, the poison dress resonates for a reason. Clothing is intended to shelter us, to provide a firm barrier between the squishy stuff of our personhood and the sharp edges of the outside world. Clothing should protect us and shield our nervous parts from the thorns of Eden.

But despite its intended function, clothing is often harmful—particularly to the women who wear it and the workers who make it. Beauty is pain. And it’s a pain that begins far before Glauce tightens the strings on her golden bodice, long before ladies shimmied into their arsenic-laced gowns, long before we stepped into our Forever 21 high heels and stumbled towards the nearest bar. It’s a pain that begins in production.

* * *

In falling down the rabbit hole of research about the myth of the poisoned dress, I came across an etching titled “The Arsenic Waltz” from 1862. The satirical image shows two skeletons dressed to the nines. The gentleman stands, hat in hand, and offers his other hand to the lady. Her bony torso rises from a big pouf of a gown, as fussy as a cupcake. On her head sits a mess of silk flowers. “The New Dance of Death,” reads the caption.

This morbid cartoon perfectly illustrates the arsenic hysteria of the Victorian age and the hazardous green dye. Magazines of the time frequently lampooned the cultural obsession with the vibrant, rich hue that went by many names, including Paris green, Poison green, Schweinfurt green, and Vienna green. An earlier green, called Scheele green, after its inventor Carl Scheele, was developed in 1775 using arsenic as one of the main chemical components. The color was further refined in the following decades. The yellow tones were scaled back, resulting in a brillianpure green that is now often called “Jungle.” This bright emerald color was used to taint everything from fabric to wallpaper to candles. Even William Morris, the great pattern maker and leader of the Arts and Crafts movement, used arsenic in his wares—in fact, his family owned the largest arsenic mine in England, so you could say all his green was poison green.

“Some have called the nineteenth century ‘The Arsenic Century,’” says Alison Matthews David, an associate professor at the School of Fashion at Ryerson University in Toronto. In 2014, David worked alongside Bata Shoe Museum Senior Curator Elizabeth Semmelhack to create the exhibition Fashion Victims: The Pleasures and Perils of Dress in the 19th Century. According to David, arsenic-laced dyes were used in the production of many goods, not all of them gendered. However, “the rhetoric is always directed against the women wearing these dresses and shoes,” she says. “Why did they persist in wearing it? But if you were a middle-class or upper-class woman, you were expected to wear it.” If you find this double bind completely shocking, then perhaps you haven’t been paying attention to women’s fashion and the conversation surrounding it, like, ever.

Although the Victorian media focused on warning men about the risks of dancing (and other, less vertically inclined things) with these femme fatales, the real danger wasn’t in wearing or touching the fashionable items. Sure, you might get an unsightly rash from wearing a dress dyed with arsenic. You might even wind up inhaling small amounts of it. But this was nothing compared to what the seamstresses suffered. “As they ripped green fabric apart, they would inhale everything that came off it,” explains David. She refers to the case of a 19-year-old silk flower maker in London who was killed by her exposure to the poison. “Arsenic can cause skin cancer, among other problems. The things they were working with had long-term effects. Conditions were just horrific.”

While fine ladies suffered from rashes, the women who made these dresses were in for something much worse. Arsenic poisoning begins with headaches, confusion, and diarrhea, and ends with comas and death. In between, you’re likely to experience a number of unpleasant things, including hair loss, bloody urine, convulsions, cramps, liver disease, and lots and lots of digestive problems. It is not a pretty way to die.

* * *

“Girl wears new formal gown to dance. Several times during the evening she feels faint, has escort take her outside for fresh air. Finally she becomes really ill, dies in the restroom. Investigation reveals that the dress has been the cause of her death. It had been used as the funeral dress for a young girl; it had been removed from the corpse before burial and returned to the store. The formaldehyde which the dress has absorbed from the corpse enters the pores of the dancing girl.”
- The Encyclopedia of Urban Legends by Jan Harold Brunvand

While poisoned garments were an actual problem of the Victorian age, the myth of the poisoned dress that kills its wearer is most likely just that—a myth. David and her colleagues haven’t found any solid evidence of death by gown, and yet this idea persists. It appeared in the 1998 movie Elizabeth, in which a handmaiden was killed by a gown intended for the queen (a completely fabricated bit of drama). The Encyclopedia of Urban Legends calls “The Poison Dress” or “Embalmed Alive” one of the earliest urban legends noted by American folklorists. Often, the story would include references to a specific department store where the dead girl supposedly purchased her dress. Some believe that the story was circulated by stores looking to discredit their rivals, an early form of particularly virulent viral marketing.

* * *

In researching the case of the poisoned dress, I was struck over and over by the repetitive nature of our fashion woes. It’s been hundreds of years, and yet we’re still blaming the fashion victim for the hurts her clothes cause. We’re still buying clothes that are made by workers in conditions that can be accurately called “horrific.” We’re still consumed by a desire to be pretty. To wear the right colors and own the right things. At least, I am.

I said at the beginning of this piece that the myth persists because the poison dresses betray the very concept of clothing. But perhaps the reason it sticks in my gut is because of something even more threatening than the familiar perverted, because that's what the poison gown is—a familiar object made unfamiliar by unseen forces. Maybe this myth—and occasional reality—doesn’t matter to modern readers because it illuminates a primal fear or despicable betrayal. Maybe the takeaway isn’t that that arsenic is fascinating (though it is) or that Medea is kind of awesome (which she is). Maybe the more important point is this: we can’t have nice things, not really. Not without some consequence. Not without paying a higher price.

Katy Kelleher is a writer living in Portland, Maine. She is currently collecting ghost stories. Have a good one? Email her at

28 Mar 02:12

Junk Explained: How To Get Around The Government’s New Data Retention Laws

by Oscar Schwartz

Hi there. Would you mind if I followed you around with a notebook for the next two years and recorded the name of everyone you had a conversation with, the time, and the location? I also plan on giving this notebook to the police if they want it. But don’t worry — I’m not going to listen to the conversations. I’ll block my ears and avert my gaze. I wouldn’t want to invade your privacy.

Admittedly, this might be a bit of an overstatement of what the new data retention laws which passed in the Senate yesterday actually are, but at least I have your attention, which is good, because if you’re like me and you use the internet a lot, this issue is something you should know about.

So, How Paranoid Should I Be?

These new laws require Australian telecommunication providers to record and store phone and internet records for two years, and also give security agencies access to these records whenever they want, even if they don’t have a warrant. While Greens Senator Scott Ludlum voiced strong opposition, the legislation had bipartisan support, passing 43 votes to 16. This means that within 18 months, your internet service provider will be storing your metadata — information about where, when and with whom you have your conversations — and potentially passing this information onto the police without your knowledge.

The purpose of this, apparently, is to protect Australia from terrorist threats and child pornography, but this comes at the expense of placing the entire population under implicit surveillance. This is the first time in history such broad and comprehensive surveillance has even be possible, and therefore we really don’t even know what we’re getting ourselves in for, or how this bill will impact the very idea of democracy.

As it stands, there is no definition for the word “metadata” in Australian law, and George Brandis, who spearheaded the legislation, can offer you no explanation either. Tony Abbott has metaphorically described it as the envelope carrying the letter, rather than the content of the letter itself and he is right, in a typically old-fashioned sense. Metadata is the information about a conversation — who, when, where — without divulging what the conversation was about.

But an analogue definition of metadata fails in a digital age, because it is much more complicated to separate the who, when and where from the what in an online environment. This is because when we use the internet we’re constantly leaving traces of previously unimaginable forms of identifiable data, not just a name and address printed on the front of an envelope. For instance, according to the new legislation, metadata is your IP address, but not your browser history. And that’s all well and good, but how many Australian citizens know what an IP address is and what type of information it gives away?

Everyone’s been doing their best by publishing explainers and warnings, but once you start throwing around the word “data” a lot people understandably tune out.

This the heart of the issue. Because internet technology is constantly changing, no one knows exactly what internet metadata is. The whole conversation remains confusing and murky, and what we need with this new legislation is transparency and clarity. It’s a shame that this term causes so much confusion because the conversation around data retention is complex and involves more important questions about the future of privacy and anonymity.

In fact, this legislation is so problematic that the guy who introduced the bill into Parliament, Communications Minister Malcolm Turnbull, has practically given us a guide for how to circumvent the scheme.

While discussing the threat this posed to journalists on Sky News, he suggested Australians can use overseas communication services like Whatsapp and Skype, in order to avoid detection. He willingly explained that Australian telcos can only track that you’ve connected with these servers, but not who you’re talking to.

Yes, it’s confusing that he would effectively invalidate a new $188-319 million system, but since Malcolm Turnbull’s clearly on board with the idea, here are four other ways that you can ensure your anonymity online.

1. Use An Overseas Email

This is a really simple one. Just use gmail or some other overseas email service to communicate. Or use Facebook or Twitter direct messaging. You probably already do this anyway. There is no way Google or Facebook or Twitter are going to give up their data to the Australian police because of this new legislation, so say whatever the hell you want.

2. Use Tor

Tor is a browser that operates by bouncing communications off servers around the world to make it difficult to detect the user’s IP address. An IP address is one of the most telling forms of metadata available online. Using this browser in the right way means that security agencies won’t be able to track where and when you’re using the internet.

Added bonus: their logo includes an onion.


Come at me, Tone.

3. Use VPN

A Virtual Private Network uses the public infrastructure of the internet to provide individual users with secure access. Basically, you subscribe to the VPN via a monthly payment, and then your internet activity becomes reliably anonymous. Your data is automatically encrypted at the sending end and decrypted at the receiving end. There are heaps of VPN-like services available for private use, and most will only set you back about $10 per month.

4. Encrypt Your Own Shit

This is a lifestyle choice rather than a paragraph, but there are a bunch of sites that will teach you how to get started. If this is the life you choose, hit me up with some hot tips. Clearly, you’re not going to have any problems with these new laws.

20 Mar 03:14

Indigenous Actor Mark Coles Smith’s Reply To Tony Abbott’s “Lifestyle Choices” Comment Is Going Viral

by Alex McKinnon

Last week Tony Abbott’s description of remote Indigenous communities as a “lifestyle choice” became Exhibit #11,705 in the planned National Terrible Things Tony Abbott Has Said Museum (opening date est. 2016), and generated a stack of online insta-outrage, including on this website. But Abbott’s mouth-fart inadvertently had bigger consequences by briefly drawing people’s attention to a series of terrible decisions by both state and federal Liberal governments that will see up to 210 of those communities in Western and South Australia being shut down and their inhabitants forcibly moved away.

Most media attention has since been drawn away by the ongoing spectacle of a Prime Minister visibly imploding like a dwarf star, but opposition to the closures of these communities has rapidly grown into a pretty formidable social movement. The last week alone has seen the campaign gather immense momentum; yesterday saw Close The Gap Day rallies in up to a dozen cities around the country, a petition calling on WA Premier Colin Barnett to abandon the closures has gathered over 30,000 signatures, and on Twitter #SOSBLAKAUSTRALIA has seen thousands of Indigenous and non-Indigenous people, including actors, politicians and sportspeople, lend their support to remote communities.

AFL STARS Neville Jetta, Heritier Lumumba, Jay Kennedy-Harris: “NO CLOSURES” #sosblakaustralia #Melbourne @Utopiana

— Les Thomas (@les_thomas) March 19, 2015

“Today is supposed to be #ClosetheGap Day, it feels like the Grand Canyon” @NovaPeris #sosBlackAustralia — © Indigenist™ (@DameyonBonson) March 19, 2015

This always was, always will be Aboriginal land #SOSBLAKAUSTRALIA — Christine Milne (@senatormilne) March 19, 2015

A photo posted by Hugh Jackman (@thehughjackman) on

One of the most eloquent rationales for supporting the campaign came from Indigenous actor Mark Coles Smith, who released a video on Facebook yesterday pointing out the immense flaws in the plan to close communities, savaging the political mindset behind it, and noting that the cost of keeping communities open is a fraction of what Australia gives the mining industry in tax concessions each year. It’s since been viewed almost 60,000 times.

As phrases go, “greedy dickheadyphilis” isn’t a bad one to coin.

Like SOS Blak Australia on Facebook here, and find more information at

10 Mar 17:30

12 Badass Women Authors You Should Be Reading Now

by The Hairpin Sponsors
by The Hairpin Sponsors


Brought to you by Open Road Media.

There are scores of brilliant women writers worth spending your precious time on. Here we present just 12 of those authors — along with some of the incredible characters they bring to life — in genres ranging from autobiography to suspense to science fiction. So what are you waiting for? Download an ebook and start educating yourself.

Octavia E. Butler

Octavia E. Butler was a trailblazer for women in the science fiction field. She was also the first science fiction writer to receive the MacArthur Fellowship, nicknamed the “genius grant.” Butler used the hyperbolic reach of speculative fiction to explore social issues including race, sexuality, gender, religion, social progress, and class. For example, in Bloodchild, an alien race uses human males to bring forth their children; arguably no other science fiction story out there packs such a punch about gender, family, and choice. When she passed at a young age in 2006, the whole science fiction community mourned the loss of this genius.

Sparkle Hayter


Before writing her breakthrough Robin Hudson series, Sparkle Hayter worked as a reporter for CNN, WABC and Global Television. During the Afghan civil war, she traveled to Pakistan — following the Mujahedin to Afghanistan as a reporter for The Toronto Star. After returning to the U.S. she got married, wrote her first (less than successful) book, moved to Tokyo, got divorced, and lived in the famous Chelsea Hotel. Only then did she write her breakthrough novel.

In What’s a Girl Gotta Do, Robin Hudson is a third-rate newscaster struggling to find love and solve murders in New York City’s East Village. She’s successful, outspoken, and has an unabashed love for the opposite sex. Part Carrie Bradshaw, part Sherlock Holmes, she's no damsel in distress, which is why we love this vivacious, sassy, and sexy sleuth.

Barbara Parker


A successful female lawyer turned author, Barbara Parker's Suspicion of Innocence follows Gail Conner’s success as a fast-rising attorney at a major law firm who is about to make partner, when she becomes the prime suspect in her sister’s murder. Gail fearlessly takes matters into her own hands to fight the system that is trying to bring her down. She proves that she’s not one to be pushed around by the big boys in this legal thriller.

Ruth Rendell


Not only is Ruth Rendell a badass who has been pioneering the modern suspense novel since 1964, she's also a bonafide baroness — technically, the Baroness of Babergh — and sits in the House of Lords for the Labour Party. So, it's no surprise that her book, The Crocodile Bird also features two very badass characters. Liza is a life-long hermit whose mother has been busy murdering men. However, after a visit from the police, Liza gets the chance to start her own life, minus the murderous mother, and with new lover in hand. She gets a rude awakening though, when she realizes just how similar she is to her sinister mother in this tale of an obsessive mother-daughter bond that is very hard to break.

Robin McKinley

Robin McKinley has been praised for her contributions to the fantasy genre and noted for her novels featuring strong heroines who appeal to both children and adults. She has won some of the world’s top awards for her writing, including the Newbery Medal for The Hero and the Crown and a Newbery Honor for The Blue Sword. Her novel Deerskin, a fairy-tale retelling of Charles Perrault's Donkeyskin, is a remarkably magical, challenging, and important work about surviving rape, and about perseverance and self-love.

Jane Yolen

One of the most acclaimed and honored authors in science fiction and fantasy, Jane Yolen has been called “the Hans Christian Andersen of America” (Newsweek) for her brilliant reimagining of classic fairy tales. Her accolades include the Caldecott Medal, two Nebula Awards, the World Fantasy Award, three Mythopoeic Awards, the Kerlan Award, two Christopher Awards, and six honorary doctorate degrees from universities in Massachusetts and New Hampshire. Cards of Grief is about an alien civilization forever changed by the incursion of human social scientists, and invites us to take a closer look at what humanity means.

Ultra Violet

Ultra Violet
Ultra Violet was one of Andy Warhol’s “Superstars.” Born Isabelle Collin Dufresne, she was a muse of Salvador Dali before meeting Warhol in the 1960s and becoming a regular at Warhol’s Silver Factory. Ultra Violet (a name she took on after her hair color of choice) went on to star in many of Warhol’s films in the 1960s and 70s, and eventually left the Factory in the 80s to pursue her own art. Her memoir Famous for Fifteen Minutes details her time as a Warhol superstar.

Robyn Davidson

Screen Shot 2015-02-25 at 9.34.19 AM
At age 27, Robyn Davidson walked across the Australian desert, accompanied only by her dog and four camels. In her memoir Tracks (now a major motion picture) Davidson recounts her journey, even more harrowing then Cheryl Strayed’s trek across the PNT.

Robin Morgan

Robin Morgan Author Photo
Award-winning poet, novelist, journalist and feminist leader Robin Morgan first appeared to the public eye at a young age with her own radio show Little Robin Morgan and later with her role in television’s Mama. But Morgan left the life of stardom to become a key figure in the global women’s movement, whose work as an activist spans from the 1960s to today (including leading the first protest against the Miss America Pageant.) In 2005 she co-founded the Women’s Media Center with Gloria Steinem and Jane Fonda. Her memoir Saturday’s Child chronicles her transition from child star to activist.

Elsa Lewin

I, Anna

Anna — the protagonist in Elsa Lewin's I, Anna (made into a film of the same name) — is as badass as it gets. After splitting from her husband, Anna sets out to find a new man, flirting her way through Manhattan’s single scene. She decides to have a one-night stand, but the next morning, Anna’s lover is dead – and she’s the main suspect. When a handsome lawyer is appointed to her case, Anna can’t help but switch on her powers of manipulation one more time in this sinister novel that has you guessing the outcome.

James Tiptree, Jr.

James Tiptree, Jr. was the pseudonym of the late Alice Bradley Sheldon. She wrote for years in the ‘60s and ‘70s under the male pseudonym in secret, and wrote the male point of view so well that several prominent science fiction authors who’d praised her writing as obviously masculine were a bit embarrassed by the revelation. An ex-CIA employee, Sheldon had the honor of being known as one of the best science fiction writers of the twentieth century. Brightness Falls from the Air is a science fiction tale set far in the future and far away, but the themes of exploitation and complicity have much to say about here and now.

Radclyffe Hall

Best know for penning the first lesbian novel The Well of Loneliness in 1928, Radclyffe Hall made waves when her publisher was put on trial and the novel was banned under Britain’s Obscene Publications Act. Distinguished author Diana Souhami brings Radclyffe Hall to life in her Lambda Award-winning biography The Trials of Radclyffe Hall. Souhami’s portrait of Hall gives an intimate look into the fascinating personal and professional life of a daring and controversial woman.

09 Mar 20:30

Approved Catcalls

by Emily Henry
by Emily Henry





























Emily Henry is a young, adult writer who is a young-adult writer, and she's wearing the same thing as last time you saw her. Her debut novel, THE LOVE THAT SPLIT THE WORLD, will be available in 2016 from Razorbill/Penguin. She also tweets.

Illustrations by Hallie Bateman.

09 Mar 16:00

A Place Where Everybody Knows Your Name

by Hannah Giorgis
by Hannah Giorgis

When I filled out a 30-day tourist visa upon arrival in Ethiopia, the country from which my parents emigrated over 30 years ago, the man behind the immigration counter smiled as he called me Hannah. Not miss or ma’am and especially not Hannah, the limp Western approximation of my name that seems to exist more as prefix to Montana (or in earlier years, Banana) than as its own entity. I heard my name on this stranger’s lips and felt like I belonged, though the irony was not lost on me as I watched my foreign status codified by the visa stamp in his hand. It had been almost 10 years since I’d last visited, but he said my name like I’d never left.

My name is as much an impostor in America as I am. At first glance, it might fool you into thinking it is not out of place here. If you do not hold it in your mouth with the reverence it deserves it will shrink quietly into the Western mold you force it to inhabit. It will sneak past some of your defenses, mask both foreignness and blackness, in its attempt to make itself inviting. “Hannah Giorgis” is as ambivalent about its citizenship as the woman who writes it on both US passport application and Ethiopian Airlines passenger information forms, hoping to make sense of it in the margins between the two.

In Amharic, the official language of Ethiopia and the first language I learned, there is only one way to pronounce my name. The Amharic alphabet is entirely phonetic, composed of letters that correspond to unequivocal syllables rather than circumstantial sounds. In Amharic, my name does not skip out of people’s mouths with reckless abandon. Unyielding hah, solid nah. It can be sweet, but first it is strong. It is not a song. To make my name into a lullaby, you must know me.

Hanni. Hard a, strong n’s, soft i. Short. Lyrical. Familiar. Sweet, like honey. Sweet, like “honey” (the word the untrained ear hears).

Hanniye. Hard a, strong n’s, soft i, warm “ye.” “Ye” which means “mine.” “Ye” which says, “you belong here, you are desired, you are beloved.”

My great aunt calls me Mariye, a derivative of mar, the Amharic word for honey. I am her sweet, she says. Having grown up largely in Southern California, I toss the word around in my head and recall the Spanish word for “sea”—mar. “Mariye” then holds two meanings in my diasporic dictionary: my honey, my sea (the latter accidental but applicable all the same). How appropriate for the niece who loves most often from across the Atlantic, whose sweetness is diluted by both ocean and radio waves.

When my father first immigrated to the US, Social Security wasn’t sure what to make of his name. “Mesmak Teklegiorgis” is a berbere-spiced mouthful, I guess, so they diced it into portions easier to wrap their unseasoned tongues around. Mesmak could stay (“maybe you should ask people to call you Mark instead though”), but Tekle became his middle name and Giorgis his last. “Mesmak” means shelter in Ge’ez, the ancient Semitic language from which Ethiopia’s Amharic takes its roots. The language is now used almost exclusively in Ethiopian/Eritrean Orthodox and Catholic churches. To have a name in Ge’ez is to be associated explicitly with the clergy, to be anointed by God. My father’s name is a holy shelter that crossed the Atlantic and stayed intact through its splintering.

The ambivalence of my father’s broken name takes on new meaning on my American birth certificate. People often ask if it is Greek, Arabic, or (perhaps most uncomfortably) Italian. So I laugh demurely and default to my standard script. “No, it’s Ethiopian. Super duper African, just like me.”

Growing up as an immigrant kid in a country defined by rigid boundaries and strict binaries, I learned to smooth out my name for people. Not correcting classmates or teachers when they pronounced it incorrectly became my white flag of choice, the slow surrender I rarely second-guessed. Outside our home, my parents called me the American version of my name. It was proof that my parents’ journey was worth it, a sign that we could assimilate into American-ness without raising our voices.

But still I longed for a more tangible connection to the country my parents left; I wanted to hear the weight of Ethiopia invoked every time someone said my name. “Hannah” demanded that I actively correct American mispronunciations if I were to have any hope of hearing my heritage spoken back to me. Soft-spoken and scared to ruffle feathers, I wanted a name that spoke of Ethiopia without having to yell—to be Selam or Nazaret or Maaza. I wanted to feel closer to home.

Names are among the first gifts bestowed upon us, ones we often keep with us well past our time on Earth. They can map entire histories, trace lineages, and resist borders. They are powerful and contentious, holding more than we know.

In the northern Ethiopian town of Lalibela, 11 churches were cut from one block of stone each during the 12th and 13th centuries. They are monolithic fortresses, towering and impressive. Each church was carved by hand not from the base of the rock but from the top; there are passageways connecting the churches, gutters to drain the heavy rains that the region experiences during summer months, and a whole host of other functional intricacies. The sight is so spectacular it was named a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 1978, and, like the Pyramids of Giza, often subjected to rumors of “alien” creation (because advanced African architecture is apparently more implausible than extraterrestrial construction). The name Lalibela, which comes from that of the king under whose reign many of the churches were carved, is not an Amharic name. Lalibela, like my father’s first name, is Ge’ez. The closest Amharic translation is mar ye bela—“he eats honey.”

The most famous of the 11 churches is a mammoth structure. It is foreboding and beautiful, the image most commonly associated with the town itself. Connected to the others not by proximity on land but by a series of trenches, it has its own majestic presence. The church, Bete Giyorgis, is stunning. Its name, pronounced the same as my own, means “House of St. George.” When I saw it this January, it took my breath away. By the time I’d regained the ability to speak, my name sounded different coming out of my lips, part of something much grander than my own lineage.

My name is a shape-shifter. It traces my roots across an ocean floor and back even when my body can’t make the journey. I carry it with me and know I am not stranded. It connects me to the country I feel in my chest every time I take a deep breath—Ethiopia is the only place where my name sounds like “welcome home.”

Hannah Giorgis is a writer and organizer based in New York. She likes bad TV, even worse puns, and daydreaming about her future with Andre 3000. You can follow her on Twitter @ethiopienne.

04 Mar 20:00

My Father, the Philosopher

by Emily Adler
by Emily Adler

2139509450_d55b0b0691_zIf the bed was here, if I touched it, lay down in it, walked away and came back, then it existed.

If it existed, then when I left for school and came back, it would still be there. If it was there today, then it would be there tomorrow. Right, Dad?

I touched the objects in the house. The bed and the Mickey Mouse light switch and the crumbling flower wallpaper. The Garbage Pail stickers. What about the office up in the attic? The porch? The sidewalk? I dashed over the slats, avoided the cracks.

My father smiled, pleased. “Well how can you know for sure? It's just like Descartes’s bad dream. What proves we’re not all living in a dream?”

Descartes's bad dream. What a lie. I bet Descartes loved his dream.

“Think about your first premise.”

“My first what?”

“Your first premise. Does it follow? If x, then p. Does touching something mean it exists? Are the conditions necessary and sufficient?”

* * *

If your father is a philosopher, then you should expect to lose many arguments. You will never lose “because life isn’t fair,” or because your dad “says so.” You will always lose on strict logical grounds.

For my friends and me, the best seats in my family’s station wagon were in the way-back. Sitting in the way-back, no parents could see us in the rearview mirror. When driving with friends, the absolute worst seat was in the front next to my dad. If I had to sit up there, then it was totally not OK for my friends to get the way-back.

But Adrianne and Christy widened their eyes when they asked him. "Can we sit in the way-back?"

I hated those faces. I knew what happened in the way-back. All the way at the other end of the station wagon, you make faces that are So Funny. You tell stories no one else is allowed to hear. By the time the car has stopped and you've piled out through the hatch, you two in the way-back are best friends and can forget about your friend who got stuck sitting in the way-front.

"Of course," my father said when they asked.

"NO Way!" I said. "That’s not fair. I can't sit back there, so they can't either."

"Who's going to sit back there if they don't?" my father asked.


"And where are you going to sit no matter where they sit?"

"In the front."

"So how is it not fair? The improvement of their situation in no one way worsens your situation. It is fair."

But my situation would be worsened. By the time we all got out of the car, I would be a blip in their collective, best friend memory.


"Adrianne. Christy. Get in the way-back. We're leaving."

And so I learned utilitarianism. The greatest good for the greatest number. The way-back for some, not for all.

* * *

My father's philosopher friend Paul came over. He had a deep scratchy voice. He paced the room with both hands on his back and his belly pushed forward. A pose of intellectual authority. My father said Paul was “philosopher famous.”

Paul had a thought puzzle for me: A train with six people on board is hurtling toward imminent collision with a brick wall up ahead.

I was at the coffee table doing my homework. I looked up at Paul.

The train was gaining momentum, moving faster. It rocked back and forth along the tracks, becoming progressively more unbalanced.

Paul told me I was on the track, watching the train filled with six stricken faces as it gathered speed. I turned and looked at the brick wall just ahead, then back at the train. Collision was imminent. The six people were helpless.

“Can they jump out? Run for their lives? Save themselves?” I asked Paul.

No, he explained. They will surely die.

I looked down and saw a lever. By pulling up on the lever, the tracks will switch left. The train will be diverted onto another path, and all will be saved.

But, wait! It’s not so simple, Paul growled. Or was he smiling? You look over at the diverting track just as you are about to pull the lever. A lone man is lying along the tracks, unable to move. He cannot be alerted about what is to come, nor dragged away from the rail lines. There is no 911, no hero lurking in a maintenance closet, no third option.

I knew there was no third option without Paul reminding me. There is never a third option in thought experiments.

Do I: A) pull the lever and divert the train, thereby saving the six people’s lives but directly causing the death of one man?; or B) do nothing? Let the six people die but bear no responsibility for any individual death.

I looked up at Paul hesitantly. “Pull the lever.”

Paul paused. “OK.”

OK? OK! I was right? My answer wasn’t wrong? The people would be saved! Only one regrettable casualty to mourn. He shouldn’t have been lying on the tracks anyway.

Except Paul wasn’t finished. “Now imagine there’s no one on the other track, and no lever at all. There is a fat man on roller skates just about to pass in front of you beside the train tracks. If you push him onto the tracks, his body will break the train’s path. He will surely die from the impact and the six people on the train will surely be saved. What then?”

I could see him. I could see the fat man skating along in his hefty ignorance. He had not fallen on any track. He had not accidentally, conveniently, gotten in the way. The fat man’s face and wide neck were coming closer into view. Time was running out. And I was supposed to do it. I was supposed to push the fat man.

But surely that can’t be. Surely, it would be wrong to push a man to his death.

“Let the fat man pass?” I said. “Let the people on the train die?”

Paul and my father were quiet. We sat in the living room, just me, two philosophers and my inconsistent logic.

"Hmm…” Paul said. “That is what most people say.”

What most people say. The worst kind of wrong answer. I should have pushed the fat man.

* * *

If your father is a philosopher, your premises must support your conclusion. Then, maybe once or twice in a childhood filled with lost arguments, you will win. When you win, you win big.

In middle school, years later, I asked my father to buy me a computer. Concerned about family resources, he pointed out that if he bought me a computer, he would be obligated to buy my younger brother a computer.

I organized my premises. If I got a computer, then it in no way worsened my brother's situation. He would be computer-less all the same.

He smiled and shook his head with feigned disapproval. He would never dispute a well-reasoned argument.

* * *

It is very cool to tell people your father is a philosopher. They think it is neat. Unusual. Intellectual. They already think you are just a little bit smarter than before you mentioned your father.

They want to ask you about your father's work. They think he's interested in big, worldly questions. The kinds of questions they’ve been thinking about for a while. The kinds of questions they have come to some really deep conclusions about. But he is not. The questions that they want the answers to, that they have the answers to—God, life after death, the Meaning of It All—those questions are uninteresting. The answers are all No, or (worse?) Don’t Assume the Conclusion.

Philosophy is not like learning the Vedas or the Tao of Pooh. It does not care for your big questions. It is not cool or hip. It does not think your Buddhist bracelet is interesting.

Philosophy is strict, serious, scientific. It is logical. It is like math. Please, when you meet my father, do not try to talk to him about philosophy. Yes, of course, he loves to talk philosophy. But you will want to talk to him about Foucault or sociology or you will not understand the nuance in Kant's argument and I will have to change the subject. You will not realize that the argument hinges on a sentence that you did not underline.

Yes, yes. You’re correct. My father is a very nice man. No, you wouldn’t really mistake him for the kind of judgmental, exacting figure I’m describing. He would humor you, maybe even like you very much. He would invite you in. He would want to buy you lunch.

But you would miss the point. You are missing the point. I can’t listen to the fawning way you’ll ask him questions about his work. I can’t listen to the smack of your lips as you tell him with borrowed authority how interested you’ve gotten in psychoanalytic theory. I can’t listen to all the likes that will punctuate your sentences, because no one ever asked you, “If it’s ‘like’ something, what’s it like?”

You will be surprised because my father is unlike what you think a philosopher is like. He does not have a beard or a gravelly voice. He is glad to talk about the $5 Chinese lunch buffet. He does not seem like a man who thinks you don’t believe in God, even if you say you do. But that is because he is not listening to you like that: like a philosopher, like a teacher, like a father. I am.

* * *

Truth was of utmost importance to my father. Truth was a social contract.

I forged my report card in high school. It was the first quarter of 9th grade and I’d gotten my first C. But when I forged the first report card, I forgot that each quarter report card that followed would include the grades from the previous quarter. So then I had to print out a B+ again the next quarter to paste on top of the original C, and as long as I was doing that I better replace each new C or C- or C+ as well. By the fourth quarter, I arrived at the photocopy place with my print-out of tiny little letters and my scissors and I was exhausted.

I did not know much about forgery and while there might be more complicated iterations, I had chosen a fairly straightforward approach. I cut out letters from a printed piece of paper and pasted them into the tiny grade spot on the report card grid. Then I photocopied the entire paper, and when my father asked why report cards were being printed on such flimsy paper this year, I shrugged.

I was not much for arts and crafts and my method of forgery required a dexterity I did not have. Some of the letters were pasted on crooked, and some of the lines from the original report card grid were obscured by the pasted on paper.

Plus, the minus sign on the fake B- looked different than the minus sign on one of the real B-s. I stared at the paper and at the various letters I might cut out to try again, and knew I wasn’t going to do it. I was either going to sit on the steps in front of the photocopy place for the rest of my life or I was going to go home and confess.

If doing poorly in school had seemed like an affront to my father already (I’d made sure that my fake grades still reflected my progressive academic deterioration, since I didn’t want any surprises when three years later I didn’t get into any good colleges), revelation of my complicated deception shook my father to his very parental core. He took a few minutes to wrap his mind around what I had done. In the interim, I apologized, I told him how terribly guilty I felt. He cut me off. My confession had been a product of laziness, not regret. The only thing worse than the lie was lying about the lie, and the lie itself was already terrible.

Then for three days he didn’t speak to me.

When he did start speaking to me again, it was because he had little choice. I was still his daughter. 
He was appalled that he had to punish me, but since he couldn’t trust that I would be in any way moved by his disgust, he also had to do things like ground me and restrict my phone privileges. Enforce punishment. The menial labor of parenting. It was embarrassing.

Then he slowly got over it. Because he had to. Because I was his daughter. I had annihilated his trust in me. And it didn’t matter. He still had to take me back.

I had forced him into a bind between what was right — leaving me to rot in the ethical cesspool I’d dove into head first — and what was necessary: raising me and clothing me and sheltering and caring about me.

A year after the report card fiasco, my father published an article called “Lying, Deceiving or Falsely Implicating.” He considered whether there is a justified moral distinction between lying and deception. He was so worried about lying, that he was also worried about deception masquerading as not-lying.

Deceiving suggests a moral effort. The desire to avoid lying. Effort may actually make the deceiver worse. “It encourages deviousness and a legalistic attempt to get away with what one can,” he wrote. The very act of trying to evade the moral responsibility of lying, of stepping up and committing the outright immoral act of lying—may make one even more immoral.

In the case of my report card then, there was no question that I had outright lied. But maybe this meant on the ladder of terrible people, I was still one rung up from those who deceived. A victory.

If your father is a philosopher then you should expect to see some version of your at-home altercations elevated to a moral academic question. If your father is a philosopher, this should not be misconstrued as a “coping mechanism.”

* * *

At my father’s surprise 60th birthday party, my mother asked me to give a toast. I was older now, 25. And I should have been poised and articulate. There was plenty to say. This is my father. He is a loving parent, a great friend, an honest man. A hiking enthusiast. A willing giver of rides to the airport. Generous with money. Unmaterialistic, though not militantly so.

He walked into the restaurant where everyone had gathered, and he was surprised. He kept putting his hand to his forehead and saying, “I just can’t believe this.” So many old and new friends everywhere he looked. Some I knew, some I barely recognized, some I’d never met.

He was recovering from pinkeye and his eyes were red-rimmed. He was not well but so happy.

When it came time for the toasts, he stood against a pipe that ran from the tin ceiling to the floor of the restaurant, waiting, palming his cheek, saying “Oh, boy.”

I meant to make a few jokes, nods in his direction, warm smiles. “Look how happy he is to have you all here,” I might begin. “His eyes are full of infection, and joy. No artifice about him at all.

I guess you’re pretty impressed that he decided to become a volunteer EMT at the age of 50 out of a sense of civic duty. Also, when I was in middle school, he brought me my forgotten lunch bag at least twice a week. He does a lot of favors and he never holds them against people.

My father is a brave man. He is not scared of most logical conclusions. If a fat man on roller skates could save a train full of people, a bus full of people, a burning building full of people, he would surely kill the fat man.

Still, though, I cannot finish my last 10 minutes on a treadmill without worrying about Zeno’s paradox and the line that can be cut infinitely in half and so never really ends. I watch the treadmill reader count down. Every 10 seconds seems endless. I sweat and pant and become very concerned that in this instance my 10 minutes will go on forever, always getting shorter and shorter and yet never really ending.

My father wears corduroy jackets with arm pads to school. He hates when people say "I feel like" when they mean "I think that." He is terribly impressed with people of elite pedigree. He speaks admiringly of your children attending highly-ranked graduate programs in math and science.

He loves Jim Carrey and not in an ironic way. He drops his ‘R’s at the end of words ending in R and he adds ‘R’s to words ending in vowels. He buys non-fat half ‘n’ half. When, after hosting a dinner party, you, his culturally well-rounded friends request regular coffee, he ignores you and makes decaf.

Every single thing I hold against him—making sure I knew I was in the lowest reading group, not the highest; telling me I could get a hamster only if I wrote an essay on the hamster species first; giving me math problems to solve on Saturday morning was done to make me be better and smarter and nicer.

And you all know it too. You too are in awe of my father. How could someone be so devastatingly exacting and kind?

You too are thinking, it is baffling. It is infuriating. It is illogical.”

I did not say any of it, of course. That would be a terrible speech.

I got preliminary stage fright and didn’t prepare. I’d given a toast once before and it had not gone well. Instead, I spoke for under a minute. I tried to make one joke but I mumbled and didn’t make enough eye contact with the audience.

Then I stepped to the side and filmed everyone else’s toast. Everyone else was very funny. My father laughed and clapped.

Throughout the rest of the party, I acted as a reliable demi-host. At the end of the night, I helped load all the presents in the car. I hoped this made up for my crappy toast, for all the other ways I’d never even tried to rise above my worst inclinations. But I didn’t need my father to tell me that trying to “make it up” was a soft phrase, that hoping things can “make up” for other, dissimilar things, is a conflation.

* * *

Later, I learned I was wrong about the station wagon incident and where all the girls were allowed to sit. It wasn’t the way-back seat that I wanted. It wasn’t a seat I wanted at all.

My father tells me Adrianne wanted the seat up front next to him. I didn’t want her to have it. But I was already in my seat in the regular back, the bench seat. If Adrianne got to sit in the front seat that in no way worsened my position. Also, the front seat was the only seat left.

The “only seat left”? Impossible! It wasn’t my birthday. I don’t remember five girls crowded into the car —- three across the bench and two in the way, way-back and only one lone seat left at the front that I didn’t have the generosity to concede to Adrianne. Did I want her to be left behind in the driveway? Better she watch the car disappearing up the block than acquire the coveted (it was coveted?) seat next to my father? Adrianne didn’t even have a dad. And I wouldn’t let her sit next to mine?

No, I was not so sadistic a child.

I ought to give this one to my father. To have said, you’re right. You’re older. You must remember better. I was a child. But no, I’m younger. I remember better. It mattered so much more to me then who sat where.

I think I’m right, of course. There were three girls. And all I wanted was to be with them. My father’s version offers one kind of metaphor and mine another. Truth is not a metaphor, of course (big box Metaphor, small box Truth). Truth is. But metaphor may be a kind of truth (big box Truth, small box Metaphor). One kind. Not the best kind.

I choose my version anyway. I know what it felt like, what it was like like. I know when two competing arguments are, in a rare instance, equally matched.

* * *

I stayed by my father in his hospice bed for a while after his big nostrils had taken in their last sips of air. I thought about Zeno’s line that goes on forever in half-broken slices, until it doesn’t. I thought about the difference between the number zero and every single other number, which seemed like a related conundrum, even if my father would have told me no, it’s not. They’re completely different sets of problems.


Everything you multiply zero by equals zero. No number can be divided by any other number to arrive at zero. There’s this big gaping chasm between zero and one. It’s not even a chasm. It’s a different planet. A different solar system. A black hole. Zero spinning alone in its own self-contained impossibility.

My father got sicker and sicker for two years. His body got smaller, his speech got more halting. He slept a lot. But still he was greater than zero.

I didn’t realize how much closer .00000001 really is to 10,000, a million, 10,000 trillion. These numbers have 99% more in common than .00000001 and zero. Zero is like nothing else. Zero can’t even really be contemplated. You can’t point to zero objects. You can’t touch them. You can’t make a joke that zero laughs at. You can’t pull the blanket up to make sure zero isn’t cold, or bring zero a milkshake because the fat is good for zero.

I put my head on my father’s chest and left it there for a bit.

I went upstairs and laid down in my childhood bed, not wanting to see the people from the funeral home when they arrived to take my father. And then, when I did come back downstairs, the bed was empty. And that was that. Zero.

It was a number that defied logic. And yes, Dad, I know. I’m probably using the word “logic” incorrectly.

Emily Adler is a New York-based writer and editor. You can follow her @EmilyAnnAdler.

05 Mar 14:30

Punk band comprised of members with Down syndrome makes it into Eurovision semi-finals

by Maggie Serota

Last month we told you about PKN (Pertti Kurikan Nimipaivat), the punk band who was completing with 17 other bands in order to represent Finland in the semi-finals of the wildly popular (in Europe) Eurovision Song Contest. The band members, who all have Down syndrome (and a few also have autism), use music to raise awareness about Down syndrome and mental disabilities as a whole. PKN were hoping to bring even more awareness to their cause via the massive exposure their entry into the Eurovision contest would provide.

Well, guess what? The band beat out the competition and will be representing Finland in the semi-finals, which is set to take place on May 19 and 21. The finale is scheduled for May 23.

In addition to being the first band with members with Down syndrome to compete in the contest, PKN is also making history by being the first punk band to grace the Eurovision stage.

“Every person with a disability ought to be braver,” singer Kari Aalto told Finnish broadcaster YLE. “He or she should themselves say what they want and do not want.”

Given how far the band has already come in their pioneering campaign for Eurovision victory, the members of PKN have plenty of bravery to spare.

Here is the qualifying performance of the song “Aina mun pitää” from Saturday night, via Consequence of Sound. The song translates to “I Have To” and is about struggling with the mundanities and chores of every day living.

“We don’t want people to vote for us to feel sorry for us, we are not that different from everybody else — just normal guys with a mental handicap,” bassist Sam Helle told The Guardian.

BBC News reported that at 5:1 odds, the band is the third favorite to take home the top honors, placing PKN behind Italy and Estonia’s entrants. However, not all the countries’ entrants have been selected yet. Plus, a win would be a major coup for Finland, since the country frequently finishes last place and hasn’t won since 2006’s bizarre heavy metal entry Lordi, in which the band performed dressed up like monsters.

Still, even if PKN doesn’t win the contest, what the members have accomplished is already remarkable as far as raising awareness to their cause is concerned.

“We are rebelling against society in different ways, but we are not political,” Helle told The Guardian. “We are changing attitudes somewhat, a lot of people are coming to our gigs and we have a lot of fans.”

If you can’t tune in to Europe’s grand Olympics of pop music, it’s not a bad idea to check out the award-winning 2012 documentary on PKN titled “The Punk Syndrome.

[h/t Consequence of Sound]

05 Mar 12:18

20 Creative Drawings Completed Using Everyday Objects By Christoph Niemann

by Dovas

Christoph Niemann is an artist who’s bursting at the seams with creativity. When he’s not drawing clever and insightful cartoons for the New York Times and other prestigious publications, he creates clever illustrations for fun, using everyday objects to enrich and complete his daily creations.

Niemann calls the drawings his “Sunday Sketches” and fits them in between his more serious illustrations, which include both political cartoons and column illustrations for the Times Magazine and the New Yorker.

We’re big fans of using everyday objects to create drawings because it’s such a fun and inclusive art form! Javier Perez and Gilbert Legrand are just two of the many artists we’ve covered who love this artform!

If you like Niemann’s work, check out his books on Amazon as well!

More info: | Facebook | AmazonTumblr | Twitter | Instagram (h/t: demilkedtwistedsifter)





















Christopher Niemann has released numerous books with his work, which can be found on Amazon

04 Mar 16:42

Email From Work Makes You Angry: Study

by Alex Balk

“Employees who receive work-related emails and texts after hours become angry more often than not, which can interfere with their personal lives,” finds a survey from the College of Business at the University of Texas at Arlington.“People who were part of the study reported they became angry when they received a work email or text after they had gone home and that communication was negatively worded or required a lot of the person’s time. Also, the people who tried to separate work from their personal life experienced more work-life interference. The after-hours emails really affected those workers’ personal lives,” notes the study’s author. A follow-up to the survey is expected to determine whether those who actually welcome off-hours emails and texts from work are either desperate to distract themselves from the horror of their own personal lives or so profoundly afraid of their own cosmic insignificance that they need to convince themselves that the work in which they find themselves employed in has some actual value and that they are a vital component to it.

03 Mar 07:30

Pavegen Takes Steps to Advance ‘Green Floors’ in French Transport Hubs

by Peter Campobasso

Pavegen St. Omer


London-based green tech company Pavegen recently announced a new partnership with SNCF to install its energy-producing floor tiles in SNCF’s Innovation and Research Office in Paris. Producing floor tiles capable of converting the kinetic energy of human footsteps into renewable energy, their installation in this corridor will power all of the LED strip lighting in the hallway, as well as an interactive interface allowing users to see the their impact and energy production.

This announcement may seem small, but it comes from a young company with a very intriguing technology. The floor tiles are mostly meant to reduce energy consumption, but they can be a particularly “innovative lighting solution in urban environments where wind and solar are ineffective,” but where there is much human foot traffic. For example, the tiles were installed beneath the surface of a soccer field in a poorer neighborhood of Rio De Janeiro, where in conjunction with solar panels, produced enough energy to power batteries that provided a neighborhood with 10 hours of lighting.

Pavegen has other impressive projects too. It has projects in London Heathrow, and is already working with SNCF. 14 tiles were installed outside St. Omer train station, and are used to power USB charging ports as well as outside lighting underneath benches. It has partnered with companies such as GDF Suez as well.

What I find most impressive about Pavegen is its vision. According to Pavegen CEO Laurence Kemball-Cook, Pavegen seeks to be “the main energy source for lighting in rail stations [across France]” by “installing our technology across every train station in France.” They see their technology being useful in not only lighting, but also phone charging ports, as well as powering ticket machines in rail stations. I like the audacity to think big.

While Pavegen has no official timeline for implementing these goals, they will be a company to keep an eye on this year. They have “new up-coming installations with well-established clients” which are still to be seen, and fund raised over $1 million by the end of last year.

I am a fan of this technology and of this company. As I said earlier, I like that it’s going after all of the train stations in France, a massive undertaking, with a very interesting technology that really couldn’t possibly pose much resistance. Who could honestly be bothered by the floor they’re stepping on? It is a great solution to reducing energy consumption from traditional sources, and reducing costs as well. With their interest in transit services, I personally think it would be really compelling to see what a partnership with a train manufacturer would look like to power the lighting inside the trains. This is especially because of how much power is needed for a train in the first place. For now, Pavegen has some exciting growth to watch over the next year. I’m interested to see what 2015 will look like for them, and the floors they will affect.

"Pavegen Takes Steps to Advance ‘Green Floors’ in French Transport Hubs" by Peter Campobasso originally appeared on Rude Baguette

25 Feb 17:00

Other People's Babies

by Laura June

One afternoon late last summer, when Zelda was seven months old, we were on a long walk in our Brooklyn neighborhood. It was about the time when we usually ventured home to play in her room for a while before having dinner in the kitchen. But there was a breeze coming off the river and I didn’t feel like going home just yet. The sun was not too hot, and there was a beautiful light shimmering over Greenpoint. Our courage was up. The restaurant at the end of our street had tables out on the sidewalk, and just one was occupied. “Let’s have dinner here, Zelda,” I said, locking the foot brake on her stroller. We sat down and lazily gazed at the menu while we waited for the high chair. I looked over at the only other patron: a woman, about my age, sitting alone, reading The New Yorker. Her hair looked freshly cut and styled. “Oh fuck, she’s reading The New Yorker,” I thought to myself, laughing. Just a woman alone at a sidewalk cafe reading a magazine. How luxurious. How common.

As I wrestled Zelda into her high chair, she started yelling. Not an angry yell, but one that was designed to get another’s attention. With her strapped in, I sat back down and looked at her. She was smiling and calling to the woman reading alone. The woman was wearing sunglasses and so was I, but still, I thought I detected a hint of annoyance. Everything in that moment was laden with meaning for me: I felt judged because my baby was being annoying and loud. I looked at Zelda’s little sundress and noticed that it had pink stains—from strawberries—down the front of it. I looked down at myself and saw that my jeans had a mysterious faint crust on the thighs from some forgotten moment of exasperation earlier when I’d simply “woosh,” rubbed my hands down my legs as a form of cleaning or drying or Jesus, I don’t know. Zelda yelled again. A happy yell. She waved frantically, waiting for a nod or a hint of recognition. She wasn’t used to being ignored. We’d sat several tables away from the lone reader on purpose just to avoid this exact scenario. “Zelda,” I said, “the lady is reading. Talk to me instead,” I said to her, trying to strike a tonal balance of level-headedness and also scoffing “babies are so dumb”-ness. The lone reader sipped her glass of wine. Zelda’s imploring got louder.

“This is a shitshow,” I thought to myself, my confidence deflating in one moment. “This woman alone, she hates me and she hates my baby for ruining her quiet Tuesday afternoon. And I hate us too. We’re annoying and gross and terrible.” I didn’t believe any of this but I felt it, completely.

I felt it as I heard a wailing baby from far off, a baby that wasn’t mine, as I ordered my own glass of wine. “Wow, loud baby,” I thought to myself as my own darling nightmare leaned over in her high chair to lick the table. I felt it still, moments later, as I saw a man in his thirties pushing an expensive, gigantic stroller down Kent Street, the wailing baby identified. “Poor guy,” I thought, “his baby is worse off than mine.” Zelda was still trying to lick the table. And I felt the feeling, still, though it began to thaw and melt away, as the woman alone reading her New Yorker removed her sunglasses and put them on the table, chugged the last of her wine, and stood up. I saw a stain on the thigh of her skinny jeans as the napkin dropped from her lap to the dirty sidewalk. She turned to the man in the stroller, who was now within earshot, baby still screaming bloody murder. “I guess he’s not going to sleep,” she said to him as he engaged the foot brake. “We should go then,” she said, glancing at me and my now silent baby.

“How old is he?” I asked, sipping my glass of wine. “Nine weeks tomorrow,” she said, smiling weakly. “How old is she?” She gestured to Zelda, who waved, smiling a drooly smile. “Just passed seven months” I smiled back. Little old nine-weeks was still wailing, dad desperately attempting to jam a pacifier into its mouth over and over. “Does it get easier?” he asked, looking up at me for the first time.

“Oh, we have our days,” I said.

“This seems like one of the good ones,” mom said, jamming her New Yorker into the stroller. “I guess so,” I said, shrugging and smiling at my baby.

Before I had a baby, I disliked them intensely. I could get along with toddlers and children; we had things in common, like getting food on the front of our clothes during meals and barking back at the dog when she barks at us. Babies seemed annoying and loud and unmanageable.

I spent a lot of time in high school babysitting. I enjoyed it, but as I fumbled towards adulthood, babies became an aberration in my life. My only experience with them, for a very long time, was seeing them throw food onto the floors of the various restaurants that I worked in. Or hearing them scream on airplanes. One of the first times I travelled long distance with my husband, I remember how shocked he was when I craned my neck around, looking frantically for the source of the screaming. “Who brings a baby on a seven hour flight?” I screeched. “I hope someone died, at least.” The sound of a baby, wailing uncontrollably, was worse than any sound imaginable, to me just then. “It’s not the baby I’m upset about, it can’t help it. It’s the parents I’m angry with!” The parents, I reasoned, were putting this baby — who obviously belonged at HOME — into situations where both it and I were unhappy. Shame on them.

If there is such a thing as eating one’s words, allow me to feast on them now, barely chewing, gulping them down with a giant glass of pinot noir, since I now have a one year old baby. As soon as the ground thawed and we began to explore, around the time the baby was just a few months old, I decided to “take her out.” In practice, this meant to stores and to restaurants. At first, it was a nightmare: her in her stroller, me choking down a salad at the neighborhood bistro, nervous on behalf of the other patrons, since she could and would lose it at any moment. But there’s nothing a parent learns to ignore faster than the sound of a baby screaming, and I acknowledge this with some sense of the irony involved.

I learned some tricks. I learned to love noisy restaurants, because they hid the sounds of her loud, boisterous speaking voice. And once she was old enough to sit in a high chair, I only went to restaurants with high chairs. I had a list of them in my mind, and some of my formerly favorite haunts became absolutely off-limits. I went on off-peak hours—if the place opened at 10 for brunch, we’d be there waiting, the first people in the door. Dinner at 5PM? We’re there. We went to the same places over and over, getting to know the staff, so that they (we imagined) welcomed us. I tried to take her out when she’d just woken up—she was happier then, and hungry.

She loves going out to eat. And she makes friends at nearly any establishment we go to. But I have no illusions about her manners. Now that she is fully onboard with eating solid food, she is quite messy. The floor beneath her high chair after a meal is a bloodbath, and she hasn’t mastered the art of not pitching her bottle, or sippy cup, or bib, onto the floor whenever she has finished with it. At first, I spent a lot of time at the ends of meals on my hands and knees, wiping up piles of discarded food from the floors. Eventually, enough busboys and servers and restaurant managers discouraged me that I simply stopped trying. Now, at the end of a meal, after paying, I simply say to the server, “sorry about the mess! Her manners are a little lacking!” and hope that tipping thirty-five percent or more makes up for our daughter’s obvious faults.

I am fairly certain it does. As does being simply apologetic for it. As does not tolerating a full on outburst in a public, controlled setting. Which we don’t: once or twice, Zelda has decided that she is just not in the mood for brunch. Fair enough: off we go, out the door. I’ve left my husband several times to finish his food alone and pick up the check. I know my daughter’s limits, and I know the limits of what I, in my former, babyless days, would find tolerable. I can tell when the cute has worn off.

That’s not to say she isn’t annoying. And here is where I’ll eat my words: She is annoying. She is loud and messy and gross. She is a baby, and lacks any semblance of real-world human skills. I accept this as a harsh reality, spending, as I do, twenty-four hours a day in her company. I don’t treasure her running the butter-soaked palm of her hand down the side of my face, and shirt, and crotch, any more than anyone else would. I try to be realistic about her aptitude for the outside world, and it’s a pretty low bar some days.

As Zelda and I walked home that day, I had a stunning though obvious realization: we were all babies once. I didn’t spring into life, fully grown, an Athena in our midst. I once was an awful member of society. I once groped my mother in public and yelled for strangers’ attentions. I once hated other people’s babies, and, truth be told, I can still get a little judgy at the sight of a particularly awful baby specimen. But, now that I’m a parent of an actual, tiny, barbaric human, I see that it’s my duty to take her out, daily, into society, in order to cull her of her worst impulses. To teach her that sometimes the people sitting just one airplane seat over don’t want to talk, or that the lady reading her New Yorker five feet away isn’t her best friend. This is the social contract: we must raise our young to be human people with manners and dignity. And you, the adult humans of the world, must tolerate us while we embark on our excursion.

I apologize in advance: you are part of the journey. I promise, she will be better for it. Thank you for your patience.

Photo by Daliophoto

The Parent Rap is an endearing column about the fucked up and cruel world of parenting

19 Feb 21:00

The 2015 Cool Cat Name Contest

by Hallie Bateman

18 Feb 16:19

This 1956 Kitchen Hasn’t Been Touched For 50 Years

by Dovas

In a strange and unexpected discovery, furniture designer and creator Nathan Chandler found and bought a home that had remained sealed since 1956, keeping its mid-century American interior perfectly intact. Though the house has recently been sold, the retro interior design of this kitchen provided us with a look at a time long gone.

It’s not clear why the original owners of the home kept it sealed for so long, but we’re glad they did, because the interior décor elements are absolutely perfect. From the pastel pink counters to the manuals still attached to the unused GE home appliances, every detail is straight out of a 1950s American family sitcom.

The fate of this period kitchen is uncertain, but we’re glad to have had a look into such a strangely-preserved historic space!

More info: Flickr (h/t: retrorenovation, demilked)

The first thing you’ll notice is that this kitchen has pink everywhere




These are the buttons to an electric stovetop – note the old-school cover


This fridge is mounted at eye-level, like a cabinet


Even the oven is pink!


The appliances all still come with their 1950s manuals






The fridge is a bit small, but at least it’s… pink


The dishwasher pulls all the way out




Here’s what dish detergent looked like in the 50s