zieglerfe

Location: At Home

On Friday, xkcd #1190—Time—came to an end.

It was a huge project, but since it was all concealed within a single comic panel, I thought I’d end with this short post to explain what was going on. If you want to see the story yourself before I spoil anything, you can use one of the many excellent third-party Time explorers, like the Geekwagon viewer, or one of the others listed here.

When the comic first went up, it just showed two people sitting on a beach. Every half hour (and later every hour), a new version of the comic appeared, showing the figures in different positions. Eventually, the pair started building a sand castle.

There was a flurry of attention early on, as people caught on to the gimmick. Readers watched for a while, and then, when nothing seemed to be happening, many wandered away—perhaps confused, or perhaps satisfied that they’d found a nice easter-egg story about castles.

But Time kept going, and hints started appearing that there was more to the story than just sand castles. A few dedicated readers obsessively cataloged every detail, watching every frame for clues and every changing pixel for new information. The xkcd forum thread on Time grew terrifyingly fast, developing a subculture with its own vocabulary, songs, inside jokes, and even a religion or two.

And as Time unfolded, readers gradually figured out that it was a story, set far in the future, about one of the strangest phenomena in our world: The Mediterranean Sea sometimes evaporates, leaving dry land miles below the old sea level … and then fills back up in a single massive flood.

(A special thank you to Phil Plait for his advice on the far-future night sky sequence, and to Dan, Emad, and everyone else for your help on various details of the Time world.)

Time was a bigger project than I planned. All told, I drew 3,099 panels. I animated a starfield, pored over maps and research papers, talked with biologists and botanists, and created a plausible future language for readers to try to decode.

I wrote the whole story before I drew the first frame, and had almost a thousand panels already drawn before I posted the first one. But as the story progressed, the later panels took longer to draw than I expected, and Time began—ironically—eating more and more of my time. Frames that went up every hour were sometimes taking more than an hour to make, and I spent the final months doing practically nothing but drawing.

To the intrepid, clever, sometimes crazy readers who followed it the whole way through, watching every pixel change and catching every detail: Thank you. This was for you. It’s been quite a journey; I hope you enjoyed the ride as much as I did!

P.S. A lot of people have asked if I can sell some kind of Time print collection (or a series of 3,099 t-shirts, where you run to the bathroom and change into a new one every hour). I’m afraid I don’t have anything like that in the works right now. I just made this because I thought it would be neat, and now that it’s done, my only plan is to spend the next eleven thousand years catching up on sleep. If you liked the project, you’re always welcome to donate via PayPal (xkcd@xkcd.com) or buy something from the xkcd store. Thank you.

After the countdown Sunday night at 9:30 pm, blasts went off on 3 of the 4 booster towers surrounding the Houston Astrodome. But there was no liftoff. As the towers collapsed into dusty piles moments later, it became clear: The blasts would not be enough to propel the Dome off its foundation and into outer space. They’ll have to find another way. Astrodome’s exterior circular ramps demolished [Click2Houston] Astrodome towers come tumbling down in a cloud of dust [Culturemap] Previously on Swamplot: The Astrodome’s Add-On Towers Will Collapse Early Next Month, in the Dark Astrodome coverage [Swamplot] Videos: OnlineNewsVideos2014, HStreet Industries, KHOU. Photo: Mike Acosta … Read More

Location: At Home

Vimeo user Subterminally appears to have had the worst 13 seconds of his life last week when he hit the cliff off of which he was base jumping. Subterminallyill received a "Compression Fracture of the T12 Vertebra, 5 stitches to the eye, 6 stitches to the chin, severely sprained Back, wrist and hand. multiple bruised areas," which is not too bad considering he FELL OFF A FUCKING CLIFF.

Alternate copy for this post, "No. No, no no no no no no. No. No. No. No, no, no, no, no. No."

(via just about everyone)

Tags: slow motion   video

Location: At Home

If it can be done with a cat's paw and with a human nipple, why not see if it works with a penis? According to Manhunt, it does. All the usual "hey, this link might get you fired" warnings apply. Especially for the video. And the animated gif.

Remember that unusable and really vague tip sent to Swamplot back in January? The one promising that a “major (non-residential) Houston property is about to make a significant change”? And it wasn’t Macy’s? Well, the in-the-know tipster now reports, we can let that cat out of the bag, since the Houston Business Journal and Houston Chronicle already have: The “Houston landmark” the tipster couldn’t tip us off about is the Galleria — which, it was announced yesterday by developer Simon Property Group, will be undergoing extensive renovations and partial demolition to create about 100,000 new sq. ft. of retail and restaurant space.

The plan calls for the Galleria III portion where Saks Fifth Avenue is currently located to be demolished — though the tipster says the Philip Johnson façade will be maintained — to make room for a bumped-out food court (shown in the rendering above). That freed-up Saks space will provide room for 35 new retailers and restaurants. Meanwhile, Saks will be moving into the Macy’s spot on Sage, and that Macy’s will be merging with the other Macy’s on Hidalgo. (Makes sense.) Also, a standalone box will be built in the parking lot for a few tenants who can afford to be more conspicuous to the stop-and-go crowd on Westheimer.

* * *

Also mentioned is the possibility of a residential highrise on the corner of W. Alabama and Sage. Writes David Kaplan: “[David Contis, president of Simon Malls] said a 300-unit residential highrise — with an outdoor pool and an indoor connection to the Galleria — is envisioned . . . . He said Simon is still in the planning process, studying infrastructure and construction issues, ‘but we think it can get done.’”

• Major changes planned for Houston’s Galleria mall [Houston Business Journal]
• Galleria project aims to up glam factor [Houston Chronicle ($)]
• Galleria coverage [Swamplot]
• Previously on Swamplot: Yeah, That’s the One, A Terribly Vague Update, Big Vague News You Can’t Use

Renderings: Simon Property Group

mission

As many as 8 new bike-sharing stations could open inside the Loop in the next 2 weeks. Will Rub, director of Houston B-Cycle, tells Swamplot that permits are in hand and the bikes forthcoming for these 5 stations: Spotts Park, at 401 S. Heights Blvd; the intersection of Taft and Fairview, at 2401 Taft St.; the Menil Collection, at 1529 W. Alabama St.; Leonel Castillo Community Center, which is undergoing a restoration at 2109 South St.; and the intersection of Milam and Webster, at 2215 Milam St.

And Rub adds that 3 other locations are just waiting for their permits: Stude Park, at 1031 Stude St., and 2 others east, for the first time, of the Southwest Fwy.: Settegast Park at Garrow and Palmer in the Second Ward, and Project Row Houses at Holman and Live Oak in the Third Ward. Rub expects those to be ready to roll September 19th or 20th.

• New Locations Coming Soon [Houston B-Cycle]
• B-Cycle spreading west and north of downtown [The Highwayman]
• Previously on Swamplot: Are Houston’s B-Cycles ‘Merely Toys for Urban Bohemians’?, Going Back to the Near Northside School on the Hill, Multiplying Houston’s Rent-a-Bike Fleet, What Bike Sharing in Houston Might Look Like

Photo of station at Lamar and Milam: Reddit user txsupernova

Gizmodo tells us:

It's everyone's favorite time of year—the birds are chirping, the bees are buzzing, and PornHub has just released a big, ol' sticky mess of data about the country's porn habits. And the conclusion? The MILF is alive and well, Nevada is weirdly into adult film star Anita Queen, and anyone invested in the porn industry needn't worry—America says "yes" to porn. Among the many interesting little tidbits, the fresh load of data makes us privy to each individual states' top three search terms as well as the—er, duration of an individual's visit to that particular corner of the internet.

PornHub's interactive data map is here.

Click over to the actual site because this massive map is so detailed that the above screen-grab is pretty useless. Hundreds of interactive links on the map will take you to celebrity pronunciation examples found on YouTube. I've always found the Brooklyn-New Orleans accent connection interesting. Goodbye, morning. (Tipped by JMG reader Sean)

Mark your calendars! The implosion of the big brick box that used to shelter Macy’s and Foley’s has been scheduled bright and early: It’ll go down at 6:10 a.m. Sunday, September 22. The Kenneth Franzheim-designed department store at 1110 Main St. has already suffered some selective chunkage, and it looks like serial crusher Cherry Demolition will be in charge of setting off the final charges.

Though Cherry is pretty experienced with this sort of thing, the building’s proximity to the light rail line seems to have spurred Metro into some serious contingency planning: Internal documents show that Metro has set up alternative service for anywhere from 2 days to 3 weeks in case something goes wrong.

Here’s the plan: The trains will stop running on the evening of Friday, September 20, to give Metro plenty of time to remove poles, wires, brackets, supports, etc. A contractor has been hired to “Utilize Containers,” says those documents, and build a wall around the water spouts and decorations at the Main Street Square station catty-corner from the building. Meanwhile, Metro will be double-checking its insurance policy.

* * *

That map shows the “restricted area” that Cherry Demolition has set. Metro says it will decide by 4 p.m. on Sunday afternoon after the implosion whether — and, of course, for how long — it will need to implement the “bus bridge” to mitigate service interruptions and redirect the passengers of some 35 bus and 20 Park and Ride routes that come in and out of Main Street Square.

• Customer Service Working Committee Meeting Agenda [Ride Metro]
• Previously on Swamplot: Daily Demolition Report: Farewell to Foley’s, Taking Chunks Out of the Downtown Macy’s, Hilcorp Shows Employees the 20-Story Tower Replacing the Downtown Macy’s, A Few Last Looks at Macy’s, Macy’s Downtown: While Supplies Last!, Mayor Parker Announces the Death Sentence for Downtown Macy’s Building, Macy’s Announces It Will Close Downtown Houston Store, The Mostly Glass Building That Won’t Be Replacing the Downtown Macy’s

Images: Jim Parsons (Foley’s); Cherry Demolition (map)

A man in the Czech Republic has won his religious battle to wear a pasta strainer on his head for his official government ID photo.

Prankster Lukas Novy, from Brno in the Czech Republic, claims that his Pastafarian faith means he has to wear the sieve at all times. Officials ruled that turning down Novy's request would be a breach of the country's religious equality laws. Brno City Hall spokesman Pavel Zara explained: 'The application complies with the laws of the Czech Republic where headgear for religious or medical reasons is permitted if it does not hide the face.' Novy claims to be a member of the Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster, when emerged in the USA as spoof on organised religion. According to its tongue-in-cheek website their 'only dogma ... is the rejection of dogma'. Members claim to believe that an invisible alien made of spaghetti and meatballs created the universe after 'drinking heavily.'

All praise His noodly appendage!

From the UK's Metro:

A Dutch dictionary has discovered the downside of letting online users vote for their "word of the year", after they overwhelmingly opted for a word that means "to swing your penis." "Swaffelen" – which, specifically, means to swing the penis so that it bumps into another object or person – got 57% of the vote in the poll conducted by Van Dale publishers, after a popular blog suggested readers vote for it. The word, which is thought to have originated over a decade ago, gained notoriety earlier in the year when a Dutch student got in trouble after he swaffeled the Taj Mahal, and then put the video of his swaffelen online. There are now a disturbing number of swaffel-related videos on YouTube.

Wait, come back. Where'd everybody go?

This is Ad Week's ad of the day.

Feminine-hygiene products have come along way from being squeamish even just about the V-word. This hilariously written long-form spot for Hello Flo, a tampon subscription service, is full of great lines and comic visuals, as it tells the amusing story of a pre-teen girl who's the first to get her period at summer camp, and who uses that milestone to become popular—despotic, even—as she dispenses products and advice almost like she's dealing drugs. "It was beginning of summer, and no one knew me at camp," she begins. "I was a just a big random loser. Then, things changed. I got my period. The red badge of courage!"

In other news, tampon subscription services are a thing.

The comic style also distinguishes Hello Flo from similar services, "which all feel like they're advertising gourmet food," said Marquis. "We're hoping it gives the brand an open personality that embraces the topic and doesn't tip-toe around the delicate subject matter. As you can see, we didn't exactly tip-toe." The new video is a kind of back-to-school effort. While the subscription service is for women and girls of all ages, the company today is launching a "Period Starter Kit," which helps parents and girls get ready for puberty "in a fun and informative way," Bloom said.

(Tipped by JMG reader Bill)

by Mark Bibbins, Editor

Rape Joke

The rape joke is that you were 19 years old.

The rape joke is that he was your boyfriend.

The rape joke it wore a goatee. A goatee.

Imagine the rape joke looking in the mirror, perfectly reflecting back itself, and grooming itself to look more like a rape joke. “Ahhhh,” it thinks. “Yes. A goatee.”

No offense.

The rape joke is that he was seven years older. The rape joke is that you had known him for years, since you were too young to be interesting to him. You liked that use of the word interesting, as if you were a piece of knowledge that someone could be desperate to acquire, to assimilate, and to spit back out in different form through his goateed mouth.

Then suddenly you were older, but not very old at all.

The rape joke is that you had been drinking wine coolers. Wine coolers! Who drinks wine coolers? People who get raped, according to the rape joke.

The rape joke is he was a bouncer, and kept people out for a living.

Not you!

The rape joke is that he carried a knife, and would show it to you, and would turn it over and over in his hands as if it were a book.

He wasn’t threatening you, you understood. He just really liked his knife.

The rape joke is he once almost murdered a dude by throwing him through a plate-glass window. The next day he told you and he was trembling, which you took as evidence of his sensitivity.

How can a piece of knowledge be stupid? But of course you were so stupid.

The rape joke is that sometimes he would tell you you were going on a date and then take you over to his best friend Peewee’s house and make you watch wrestling while they all got high.

The rape joke is that his best friend was named Peewee.

OK, the rape joke is that he worshiped The Rock.

Like the dude was completely in love with The Rock. He thought it was so great what he could do with his eyebrow.

The rape joke is he called wrestling “a soap opera for men.” Men love drama too, he assured you.

The rape joke is that his bookshelf was just a row of paperbacks about serial killers. You mistook this for an interest in history, and laboring under this misapprehension you once gave him a copy of Günter Grass’s My Century, which he never even tried to read.

It gets funnier.

The rape joke is that he kept a diary. I wonder if he wrote about the rape in it.

The rape joke is that you read it once, and he talked about another girl. He called her Miss Geography, and said “he didn’t have those urges when he looked at her anymore,” not since he met you. Close call, Miss Geography!

The rape joke is that he was your father’s high-school student—your father taught World Religion. You helped him clean out his classroom at the end of the year, and he let you take home the most beat-up textbooks.

The rape joke is that he knew you when you were 12 years old. He once helped your family move two states over, and you drove from Cincinnati to St. Louis with him, all by yourselves, and he was kind to you, and you talked the whole way. He had chaw in his mouth the entire time, and you told him he was disgusting and he laughed, and spat the juice through his goatee into a Mountain Dew bottle.

The rape joke is that come on, you should have seen it coming. This rape joke is practically writing itself.

The rape joke is that you were facedown. The rape joke is you were wearing a pretty green necklace that your sister had made for you. Later you cut that necklace up. The mattress felt a specific way, and your mouth felt a specific way open against it, as if you were speaking, but you know you were not. As if your mouth were open ten years into the future, reciting a poem called Rape Joke.

The rape joke is that time is different, becomes more horrible and more habitable, and accommodates your need to go deeper into it.

Just like the body, which more than a concrete form is a capacity.

You know the body of time is elastic, can take almost anything you give it, and heals quickly.

The rape joke is that of course there was blood, which in human beings is so close to the surface.

The rape joke is you went home like nothing happened, and laughed about it the next day and the day after that, and when you told people you laughed, and that was the rape joke.

It was a year before you told your parents, because he was like a son to them. The rape joke is that when you told your father, he made the sign of the cross over you and said, “I absolve you of your sins, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit,” which even in its total wrongheadedness, was so completely sweet.

The rape joke is that you were crazy for the next five years, and had to move cities, and had to move states, and whole days went down into the sinkhole of thinking about why it happened. Like you went to look at your backyard and suddenly it wasn’t there, and you were looking down into the center of the earth, which played the same red event perpetually.

The rape joke is that after a while you weren’t crazy anymore, but close call, Miss Geography.

The rape joke is that for the next five years all you did was write, and never about yourself, about anything else, about apples on the tree, about islands, dead poets and the worms that aerated them, and there was no warm body in what you wrote, it was elsewhere.

The rape joke is that this is finally artless. The rape joke is that you do not write artlessly.

The rape joke is if you write a poem called Rape Joke, you’re asking for it to become the only thing people remember about you.

The rape joke is that you asked why he did it. The rape joke is he said he didn’t know, like what else would a rape joke say? The rape joke said YOU were the one who was drunk, and the rape joke said you remembered it wrong, which made you laugh out loud for one long split-open second. The wine coolers weren’t Bartles & Jaymes, but it would be funnier for the rape joke if they were. It was some pussy flavor, like Passionate Mango or Destroyed Strawberry, which you drank down without question and trustingly in the heart of Cincinnati Ohio.

Can rape jokes be funny at all, is the question.

Can any part of the rape joke be funny. The part where it ends—haha, just kidding! Though you did dream of killing the rape joke for years, spilling all of its blood out, and telling it that way.

The rape joke cries out for the right to be told.

The rape joke is that this is just how it happened.

The rape joke is that the next day he gave you Pet Sounds. No really. Pet Sounds. He said he was sorry and then he gave you Pet Sounds. Come on, that’s a little bit funny.

Admit it.





Patricia Lockwood is the author of Balloon Pop Outlaw Black (Octopus Books, 2012). Follow her on Twitter at @TriciaLockwood.

You will find more poems here. You may contact the editor at poems@theawl.com.

160 Comments

The post A Poem By Patricia Lockwood appeared first on The Awl.

"If those services don't trust me enough to give me an RSS feed, why should I trust them with my data?"  

Let me introduce the newest member of the BigKidSmallCity team!

I met Felicia at our kids’s preschool a few years ago.  While I was trying to clean my floors and organize my life, she was out at every single Houston event and attraction and enjoying life with her kids.  She inspired me to start BigKidSmallCity and change my priorities.

I’m excited to tell you that now Felicia will be writing for BigKidSmallCity.  In addition to things to do in Houston, she will add children’s book reviews each week!

When I asked her to introduce herself, she told me:  I’m just a married Mexican-American mom, living in Houston, with two little girls, who have a German last name ,that speak Chinese as a second language, trying to make sense of the world. Also, we love books. A lot. I’m here to write about the books my kids love to read late at night or while riding in the car.

It’s all true.  And she has a nose ring.  Felicia is sure to add some flavor to BigKidSmallCity!

I remember being endlessly entertained by the adventures of my toys. Some days they died repeated, violent deaths, other days they traveled to space or discussed my swim lessons and how I absolutely should be allowed in the deep end of the pool, especially since I was such a talented doggy-paddler.


I didn't understand why it was fun for me, it just was.


But as I grew older, it became harder and harder to access that expansive imaginary space that made my toys fun. I remember looking at them and feeling sort of frustrated and confused that things weren't the same.


I played out all the same story lines that had been fun before, but the meaning had disappeared. Horse's Big Space Adventure transformed into holding a plastic horse in the air, hoping it would somehow be enjoyable for me. Prehistoric Crazy-Bus Death Ride was just smashing a toy bus full of dinosaurs into the wall while feeling sort of bored and unfulfilled.  I could no longer connect to my toys in a way that allowed me to participate in the experience.


Depression feels almost exactly like that, except about everything.

At first, though, the invulnerability that accompanied the detachment was exhilarating. At least as exhilarating as something can be without involving real emotions.


The beginning of my depression had been nothing but feelings, so the emotional deadening that followed was a welcome relief.  I had always wanted to not give a fuck about anything. I viewed feelings as a weakness — annoying obstacles on my quest for total power over myself. And I finally didn't have to feel them anymore.

But my experiences slowly flattened and blended together until it became obvious that there's a huge difference between not giving a fuck and not being able to give a fuck. Cognitively, you might know that different things are happening to you, but they don't feel very different.


Which leads to horrible, soul-decaying boredom.

I tried to get out more, but most fun activities just left me existentially confused or frustrated with my inability to enjoy them.


Months oozed by, and I gradually came to accept that maybe enjoyment was not a thing I got to feel anymore. I didn't want anyone to know, though. I was still sort of uncomfortable about how bored and detached I felt around other people, and I was still holding out hope that the whole thing would spontaneously work itself out. As long as I could manage to not alienate anyone, everything might be okay!

However, I could no longer rely on genuine emotion to generate facial expressions, and when you have to spend every social interaction consciously manipulating your face into shapes that are only approximately the right ones, alienating people is inevitable.


Everyone noticed.


It's weird for people who still have feelings to be around depressed people. They try to help you have feelings again so things can go back to normal, and it's frustrating for them when that doesn't happen. From their perspective, it seems like there has got to be some untapped source of happiness within you that you've simply lost track of, and if you could just see how beautiful things are...


At first, I'd try to explain that it's not really negativity or sadness anymore, it's more just this detached, meaningless fog where you can't feel anything about anything — even the things you love, even fun things — and you're horribly bored and lonely, but since you've lost your ability to connect with any of the things that would normally make you feel less bored and lonely, you're stuck in the boring, lonely, meaningless void without anything to distract you from how boring, lonely, and meaningless it is.


But people want to help. So they try harder to make you feel hopeful and positive about the situation. You explain it again, hoping they'll try a less hope-centric approach, but re-explaining your total inability to experience joy inevitably sounds kind of negative; like maybe you WANT to be depressed. The positivity starts coming out in a spray — a giant, desperate happiness sprinkler pointed directly at your face. And it keeps going like that until you're having this weird argument where you're trying to convince the person that you are far too hopeless for hope just so they'll give up on their optimism crusade and let you go back to feeling bored and lonely by yourself.


And that's the most frustrating thing about depression. It isn't always something you can fight back against with hope. It isn't even something — it's nothing. And you can't combat nothing. You can't fill it up. You can't cover it. It's just there, pulling the meaning out of everything. That being the case, all the hopeful, proactive solutions start to sound completely insane in contrast to the scope of the problem.

It would be like having a bunch of dead fish, but no one around you will acknowledge that the fish are dead. Instead, they offer to help you look for the fish or try to help you figure out why they disappeared.


The problem might not even have a solution. But you aren't necessarily looking for solutions. You're maybe just looking for someone to say "sorry about how dead your fish are" or "wow, those are super dead. I still like you, though."


I started spending more time alone.


Perhaps it was because I lacked the emotional depth necessary to panic, or maybe my predicament didn't feel dramatic enough to make me suspicious, but I somehow managed to convince myself that everything was still under my control right up until I noticed myself wishing that nothing loved me so I wouldn't feel obligated to keep existing.


It's a strange moment when you realize that you don't want to be alive anymore. If I had feelings, I'm sure I would have felt surprised. I have spent the vast majority of my life actively attempting to survive. Ever since my most distant single-celled ancestor squiggled into existence, there has been an unbroken chain of things that wanted to stick around.


Yet there I was, casually wishing that I could stop existing in the same way you'd want to leave an empty room or mute an unbearably repetitive noise.


That wasn't the worst part, though. The worst part was deciding to keep going.


When I say that deciding to not kill myself was the worst part, I should clarify that I don't mean it in a retrospective sense. From where I am now, it seems like a solid enough decision. But at the time, it felt like I had been dragging myself through the most miserable, endless wasteland, and — far in the distance — I had seen the promising glimmer of a slightly less miserable wasteland. And for just a moment, I thought maybe I'd be able to stop and rest. But as soon as I arrived at the border of the less miserable wasteland, I found out that I'd have to turn around and walk back the other way.


Soon afterward, I discovered that there's no tactful or comfortable way to inform other people that you might be suicidal. And there's definitely no way to ask for help casually.


I didn't want it to be a big deal. However, it's an alarming subject. Trying to be nonchalant about it just makes it weird for everyone.


I was also extremely ill-prepared for the position of comforting people. The things that seemed reassuring at the time weren't necessarily comforting for others.

I had so very few feelings, and everyone else had so many, and it felt like they were having all of them in front of me at once. I didn't really know what to do, so I agreed to see a doctor so that everyone would stop having all of their feelings at me.


The next few weeks were a haze of talking to relentlessly hopeful people about my feelings that didn't exist so I could be prescribed medication that might help me have them again.


And every direction was bullshit for a really long time, especially up. The absurdity of working so hard to continue doing something you don't like can be overwhelming. And the longer it takes to feel different, the more it starts to seem like everything might actually be hopeless bullshit.


My feelings did start to return eventually. But not all of them came back, and they didn't arrive symmetrically.

I had not been able to care for a very long time, and when I finally started being able to care about things again, I HATED them. But hatred is technically a feeling, and my brain latched onto it like a child learning a new word.


Hating everything made all the positivity and hope feel even more unpalatable. The syrupy, over-simplified optimism started to feel almost offensive.


Thankfully, I rediscovered crying just before I got sick of hating things.  I call this emotion "crying" and not "sadness" because that's all it really was. Just crying for the sake of crying. My brain had partially learned how to be sad again, but it took the feeling out for a joy ride before it had learned how to use the brakes or steer.


At some point during this phase, I was crying on the kitchen floor for no reason. As was common practice during bouts of floor-crying, I was staring straight ahead at nothing in particular and feeling sort of weird about myself. Then, through the film of tears and nothingness, I spotted a tiny, shriveled piece of corn under the refrigerator.


I don't claim to know why this happened, but when I saw the piece of corn, something snapped. And then that thing twisted through a few permutations of logic that I don't understand, and produced the most confusing bout of uncontrollable, debilitating laughter that I have ever experienced.


I had absolutely no idea what was going on.


My brain had apparently been storing every unfelt scrap of happiness from the last nineteen months, and it had impulsively decided to unleash all of it at once in what would appear to be an act of vengeance.


That piece of corn is the funniest thing I have ever seen, and I cannot explain to anyone why it's funny. I don't even know why. If someone ever asks me "what was the exact moment where things started to feel slightly less shitty?" instead of telling a nice, heartwarming story about the support of the people who loved and believed in me, I'm going to have to tell them about the piece of corn. And then I'm going to have to try to explain that no, really, it was funny. Because, see, the way the corn was sitting on the floor... it was so alone... and it was just sitting there! And no matter how I explain it, I'll get the same, confused look. So maybe I'll try to show them the piece of corn - to see if they get it. They won't. Things will get even weirder.


Anyway, I wanted to end this on a hopeful, positive note, but, seeing as how my sense of hope and positivity is still shrouded in a thick layer of feeling like hope and positivity are bullshit, I'll just say this: Nobody can guarantee that it's going to be okay, but — and I don't know if this will be comforting to anyone else — the possibility exists that there's a piece of corn on a floor somewhere that will make you just as confused about why you are laughing as you have ever been about why you are depressed. And even if everything still seems like hopeless bullshit, maybe it's just pointless bullshit or weird bullshit or possibly not even bullshit.

http://www.27bslash6.com/arguments.html


Things Holly and I have argued about this week.
www.27bslash6.com
A story of conflict and concession. Kind of like the movie Rain Man except nobody knows how to count cards.

The Problem: “As traffic backs up on 59 past the Spur, drivers are faced with a dilemma. Do I sit and queue here in the right three lanes, which aren’t moving? Or do I get over and zoom past until right before the split? Many, understandably, choose the latter. But what this does is create a new bottleneck at the point where the Spur diverges, because traffic is merging into the left lane and then trying to cross over to get to 288 or stay on 59.” The (Not So Obvious) Solution: “Add a couple miles of barrier and put the split (‘gore point’ in traffic engineer speak) at Shepherd. If you’ve driven this route once, you can see how it would immediately shave several minutes off the trip to Downtown/Midtown/Montrose. The Spur is never jammed in the reverse direction, so anything that effectively lengthens the Spur lengthens the distance of hassle-free 60mph cruising. But such a configuration would also help drivers continuing on 59.”

• The Spur needs to split at Shepherd [Keep Houston Houston]

Photo: Flickr user jfre81 [license]

Last week, this sign showed up in the window at the old Sophia restaurant on W. Main and Mandell, indicating that something or someone called Faustian Bargain intends to serve Montrose some devil juice — er, liquor. Sophia closed here at the end of February, you’ll remember, and Café Artiste mysteriously disappeared several years before that. Some sleuthing by a Swamplot reader — later echoed by Eater Houston and Culturemap — turned up that 2 of the likely new owners of the 2,400-sq.-ft. standalone near the Menil Collection are Omar Afra and Jagatjit Katial of Free Press Houston and Fitzgerald’s fame. Inquiries for more information haven’t been returned.

• Is the Free Press Crew Opening a Bar in Montrose? [Eater Houston]
• A new bar with major music cred is opening by The Menil: Want to drink to Free Press? [Culturemap]
• Previously on Swamplot: West Main Standalone Now Available for Next Restaurant, “Dude, What Gives?”: Cafe Artiste’s Disappearing Act

Photos: Allyn West

May is National Masturbation Month.

After a long string of highly-publicized cyber attacks on high-profile Twitter accounts, today's was doubtlessly the worst so far.

The AP's communications team quickly tweeted from its own account that the main AP Twitter was compromised, but investors had already panicked. The Dow Jones industrial average immediately plunged by more than 140 points.  And there it is: After years of hacks that typically involved little more than obscene language, Twitter's subpar security measures have now caused serious real-world consequences.  Many hacks happen when account owners use guessable passwords or access Twitter over public Wi-Fi and shared computers. If one person who tweets from a corporate account loses his or her phone, an entire corporation's Twitter account could be at risk.

Peter Muessig’s graduate thesis for the Rice School of Architecture imagines a system of symbiotic bike-only features he’s calling “Veloducts” that would be fused on, under, around, and through the city’s existing car-dominated infrastructure. This rendering shows just such a Veloduct, which appears to be similar to those foot bridges already spanning Buffalo Bayou. But OffCite’s Sara C. Rolater explains how a Veloduct is much more ambitious: “In variations of concrete, joists, and steel, [a Veloduct] can be grafted onto the pillars of freeways, hang suspended by girders, or stand on its own columns. . . . [allowing] cyclists to capitalize on precisely those systems that have previously hindered them. That [the project] enables different modes of transport to coexist without crowding each other seems especially critical for Houston, where a lack of safe-passage laws have made many of Google Maps’ bright-green highlighted ‘bike-friendly’ roads anything but.” [OffCite; previously on Swamplot] Rendering: Peter Muessig

A Native American tribe is doing exactly the opposite of what you'd think they'd do: they're kicking people out of the tribe, huge numbers of them, including people whose ancestors without question were part of the tribe. And the story of a white guy who only wants to date Asian women, who then has to adjust to the reality of a real actual Asian woman in his life. The phrase "finding your tribe" is a total cliche — but one that does apply to certain situations.

Yesterday the Texas A&M student senate voted to allow "religiously objecting" students to withhold the portion of their student fees that funds the campus LGBT Resource Center.  Today the student body president announced that he will veto that vote.

News this week that some student senators had targeted the center thrust the traditionally conservative university into the national spotlight, and [student body president John] Claybrook said it was time to "stop the bleeding." “The damage must stop today,” Claybrook wrote in a letter announcing his intention to veto. “Texas A&M students represent our core value of respect exceptionally and I'm very proud of the family at this university. Now, more than ever, is the time to show great resolve and come together, treating each other like the family that we are.” A veto by Claybrook means that the legislation passed 35-28 on Wednesday will not represent the official opinion of the student body at Texas A&M.

It's unclear if the student senate will attempt to override Claybrook's veto, but the close margin of yesterday's vote indicates they would not succeed. (Tipped by JMG reader Austin)