Meet End User


It’s about time I start­ed talk­ing to myself about tech­nol­o­gy in my parked car again. My audio equip­ment is still in stor­age, but I’m fresh out of folks who want to lis­ten to my rants about The Open Web, so I guess I’ll be giv­ing you a call every once in a while. Until yes­ter­day, End User was a missed oppor­tu­ni­ty for a pod­cast title.

Do be sure to vis­it Anchor’s Tech­nol­o­gy fea­tured sec­tion to find (sortof) sim­i­lar pod­casts by hosts who have real diplo­mas, but you cer­tain­ly don’t need one to call in any­time.

 Log­ic Mag­a­zine is required read­ing — start with “Dis­rup­tion: A Man­i­festo.”

The Good Guy, Han Solo

It’s open­ing night at the Bag­dad The­ater on Hawthorne in South­east Port­land and hard­ly anybody’s both­ered to show up. Less than 20% of the venue’s 500 seats are occu­pied by the time the host takes the stage to intro­duce Solo, but those who are here for the last Thurs­day show­ing have been shout­ing, whoop­ing, and gur­gling bad approx­i­ma­tions of wook­iee nois­es since the screen cut to black from its ad slideshow. If my mid­dle row can be assumed an accu­rate sam­ple, only a hand­ful of these are “fans” enough to feel com­pelled to wear a Star Wars t-shirt. As I grab my last cock­tail, the bar­tender tells me that only 300 folks showed up for the evening mati­nee, though he him­self was “excit­ed” to see the movie — one of a minor­i­ty among Port­landers, appar­ent­ly, who still give a shit about Star Wars.

By design, Solo: A Star Wars Sto­ry is a slight­ly more com­plex film than The Episodes in the same way Rogue One was, if a bit bet­ter exe­cut­ed, nar­ra­tive­ly. First, please rest assured that Alden Ehren­re­ich assumes the Han Solo per­sona as tru­ly as any­one could — he tri­umphed through a ridicu­lous­ly exten­sive cast­ing process, and is cer­tain­ly hand­some enough (if not more con­ven­tion­al­ly so than his pre­de­ces­sor) to con­sis­tent­ly look the part. He actu­al­ly bears an unset­tling resem­blance in fea­tures and man­ner­isms to one of the nicest guys I’ve ever met and that through-and-through boy­ish­ness par­tic­u­lar­ly makes sense here, set in Han’s for­ma­tive, earnest youth — the stat­ed pur­pose of the film’s exis­tence. Fran­chise fanat­ics, then, should be con­tent. (It’s a good thing CGI-ing the main char­ac­ter in a live action film isn’t quite a low-risk option yet.) And yes, Don­ald Glover com­plete­ly steals the vain, infi­nite­ly styl­ish Lan­do Cal­riss­ian and inevitably makes one wish to see him cast again. Per­son­al­ly, I am very tired of see­ing Woody Har­rel­son, though all the com­po­nents of his pub­lic per­sona should all but ensure his lik­a­bil­i­ty. From what I saw in Three Bill­boards, I’d con­cede that he is as tal­ent­ed of an actor as I am capa­ble of appre­ci­at­ing, but his role as Tobias Beck­ett in Solo couldn’t pos­si­bly be sub­stan­tial enough to actu­al­ly make use of his craft.

Though I don’t believe in “spoil­ers,” or use of the term to bait read­ers, it’s worth stat­ing for the record what every­one should know by now: there sim­ply aren’t spoil­ers in a Star Wars movie — every human being on Earth knows too much about the for­mu­la to ever have any of these films’ com­par­a­tive­ly irrel­e­vant plots “ruined.” The most sur­pris­ing, his­tor­i­cal­ly-sig­nif­i­cant deci­sion of this whole pro­duc­tion was the omis­sion of the tra­di­tion­al yel­low type open­ing crawl over a back­drop of dis­tant stars, which I gen­uine­ly found myself miss­ing. (Appar­ent­ly it wasn’t present in Rogue One, either — I just failed to catch it.) I was very pleased to see my own num­ber one favorite device of the fran­chise used with­in this film’s first ten min­utes: crimelords and gang lead­ers as huge­ly mag­ni­fied vari­a­tions of the creep­ing and crawl­ing crea­tures our instincts are planned to abhor. Solo’s first vil­lain — the gigan­tic, worm­like boss Lady Prox­i­ma (Lin­da Hunt) — is com­plete­ly incon­se­quen­tial, and only appears in a sin­gle scene, but the prac­tice of gross­ly over­sized mon­strosi­ties leav­ing absolute­ly noth­ing of a baddie’s essence to be extrap­o­lat­ed by the audi­ence from nuance is one of very few ways these films are let loose, and it open­ly shits on the more pre­ten­tious viewer’s assump­tions about good writ­ing, which I think big mon­ey movies should feel more com­fort­able doing, gen­er­al­ly.

This first act begins on Han’s home plan­et Corel­lia — the bleak­er urban, indus­tri­al, work­ing-class coun­ter­part to the clean capi­tol city­world Cor­us­cant — with his rather pre­dictable mis­sion to escape Lady Proxima’s sphere of con­trol with his girl, Qi-ra (Emil­ia Clarke,) who could and should have been more cre­ative­ly named, giv­en her impor­tance not as her own char­ac­ter with depth to devel­op (a no-no for a female role, Gourd help us,) but as Han’s mir­ror image to grow dark­ly apart, prov­ing that he — The Good Guy - is unques­tion­ably more moral­ly for­ti­fied than any­one else in the whole god­damned uni­verse. After hav­ing been drug through so very many, I couldn’t tell you at this point how to make the intro­duc­to­ry escape action of this sort of pro­duc­tion more excit­ing and less for­mu­la­ic. Big sur­prise — their plan goes awry, and Qi-ra is pre­vent­ed from leav­ing the plan­et with Han, who’s imme­di­ate (and I mean imme­di­ate)solu­tion is his enlist­ment in the Impe­r­i­al Navy via the recruit­ing sta­tion right there in the damned space­port (dur­ing which the film takes the lib­er­ty of seiz­ing his surname’s expla­na­tion) to serve the Eng­lish in their grand con­quest of the uni­verse. Bizarrely, he man­ages to serve as a grunt for three whole years of com­plic­i­ty in unmen­tioned atroc­i­ties until he encoun­ters the dis­guised crim­i­nal Wise Old Woody in the mid­dle of pulling a job with his two-per­son crew. The team doesn’t agree to bring Solo along until he meets an asset in Chew­bac­ca for the first time as he briefly inhab­its anoth­er of the clas­sic Star Wars trap: the hun­gry mon­ster in a shad­ow-filled mud pit, but is spared the wrath because of his intro­duc­to­ry grasp on Chewie’s shriek­ing lan­guage (called Shyri­i­wook) in which he man­ages to suf­fi­cient­ly pitch the advan­tages of his sur­vival, and the two escape, chained togeth­er. Observ­ing the addi­tion of Wook­iee to the deal, the crew briefly debates the prospect’s new val­ue in pro­vid­ing “need­ed mus­cle,” which con­vinces Woody to return for them and kicks off a series of case stud­ies in this film’s bizarre atti­tude toward the com­mod­i­fi­ca­tion of the oppressed.

How­ev­er, in a rare depic­tion of his voli­tion, Chew­bac­ca is briefly con­sult­ed before the two seek to be for­mal­ly includ­ed on the job, and is even asked around a camp­fire, lat­er, what he’s shoot­ing for in life at the moment, to which he responds“finding my family/tribe.” Despite hav­ing spent a whole three hell­ish years in the trench­es with the British, the roman­tic Han Solo declares his pri­ma­ry moti­va­tion for all of it still lies in his desire to return to Corel­lia and res­cue Qi’ra. In their stolen Impe­r­i­al ship, the lot descend on a snowy moun­tain-tra­vers­ing Maglev to steal the Ura­ni­um it’s trans­port­ing in a scene that’s straight up jacked from ani­mat­ed fam­i­ly clas­sic The Polar Express, but… oh no!… A gag­gle of “marauders”called the Cloud Rid­ers (yet anoth­er throw­away prop­er noun) roll up on those speed­er bikes from Endor (except these can fly,) and screw up every­thing so bad­ly that both of Woody’s crew end up dead and the booty scut­tled. After the fact, Woody reveals to Han that the job was con­tract­ed by yet anoth­er care­less­ly-named crime syn­di­cate — Crim­son Dawn, and that his only pos­si­ble course of action is now vig­or­ous brown nos­ing to its leader, Dry­den Vos (Paul Bettany)((aka Scarred Jarvis,)) in the wan­ing hope he’ll spare his life to make anoth­er attempt. Fol­low­ing this infor­ma­tion, he firm­ly sug­gests that Han and Chewie fuck off, lest their faces become known in the under­world, doom­ing them to serv­ing it for­ev­er, appar­ent­ly. Already, this vague pre­sump­tion of Han’s puri­ty which all of the pro­tag­o­nists must con­stant­ly ven­er­ate in mar­tyr­dom is get­ting tire­some, as is the dynam­ic of his insis­tence against them.

Nat­u­ral­ly, both Chewie and Han end up along for a vis­it to Scarred Jarvis’ tow­er yacht, where the lat­ter very con­ve­nient­ly stum­bles upon none oth­er than his long lost love, Qi-ra in the bar. Despite hav­ing spent the past three years at war in unspeak­able con­di­tions think­ing only of how to lib­er­ate and be reunit­ed with her, he isn’t both­ered to express more than the mod­er­ate­ly-excit­ed and sur­prised hug you’d expect of some­one who’s just run into the kid down the cul-de-sac from their child­hood home who used to ride her bike over for pop­si­cles on Sun­day after­noons. While he does rehearse for her the tale of their reuni­fi­ca­tion as his one moti­va­tion for every­thing since they were sep­a­rat­ed — includ­ing his pres­ence there, “right now,” he fol­lows the pro­fes­sion up quite abrupt­ly with the sly sug­ges­tion that they fuck as soon as pos­si­ble. True to trope, she is jad­ed and indef­i­nite as she dis­tant­ly implies her binds of servi­tude while flash­ing the tat­too of the extreme­ly-for­get­table and innocu­ous Crim­son Dawn logo on her right wrist. (The total lame­ness of the brands in this movie must be inten­tion­al. I can think of no oth­er expla­na­tion.)

The evil Scarred Jarvis is then intro­duced, quick­ly steal­ing the crown for Best Host of all Star Wars Antag­o­nists before polite­ly ask­ing Woody why he shouldn’t kill the lot of them. As per his infi­nite luck, Han pulls the idea of steal­ing unre­fined Ura­ni­um out of his ass, which has some­how nev­er occurred to any­one else in the room, despite their unan­i­mous top-of-the-head knowl­edge of the sin­gle loca­tion where it is mined. Short­ly, the mer­ry three plus Qi-ra con­ve­nient­ly in tow are off to a casi­no-esque estab­lish­ment to find Lan­do, who Qi-ra describes as “attrac­tive, styl­ish, charm­ing,” and like adjec­tives, to Han’s obvi­ous sex­u­al cha­grin, which is fur­thered by his sub­se­quent loss of a card game with Lando’s ship — the Mil­len­ni­um Fal­con, of course — in the stakes. Of course, the attrac­tive, beau­ti­ful­ly-dressed black man only bests Solo — the earnest, sim­ple­ton, Good Guy white dude who wears the same out­fit for decades — in front of Qi-ra, the female prize by way of sleight-of-hand, the film shame­less­ly play­ing on that strange inse­cu­ri­ty white guys have about their part­ners’ secret­ly ever­p­re­sent and very pow­er­ful temp­ta­tion to dump them with­out warn­ing for black cock. Fur­ther emas­cu­la­tion is inflict­ed on poor lit­tle Han when Lan­do turns his oh-so-crafty(actu­al­ly just very charis­mat­ic) charm upon Qi-ra, who reveals that she’s the boss of the gig. The final blow to Han’s dick­i­tude is cast when he tries to enter the nego­ti­a­tion between thEEEEEEe two and Lan­do chides “the adults are speak­ing,” but even­tu­al­ly agrees to pro­vide them a lift for a 25% cut, so the lot make prepa­ra­tions to leave.

Enter my new favorite char­ac­ter of the fran­chise, Lan­do Calrissian’s co-pilot, L3-37 (voiced by Phoebe Waller-Bridge,) or “L3,” the proud­ly sen­tient, vio­lent­ly rev­o­lu­tion­ary pro-rights droid who is intro­duced as she is plead­ing with two fight­ing droids in a square cage sur­round­ed by scream­ing spec­ta­tors (easy does it on that the­mat­ic slav­ery) to cir­cum­vent their “fight­ing pro­grams” because they “don’t have to do this.” Though Lan­do and the crew behave like her duress is fool­ish and unim­por­tant — pulling her away to the Fal­con — she is allowed anoth­er oppor­tu­ni­ty to free droids very soon, but not before Solo’s sin­gle short pri­vate con­ver­sa­tion between two female char­ac­ters.

On the way to Kessel, Qi-ra stops by the cock­pit and con­vers­es with L3. Until recent­ly, I was unaware of what’s large­ly regard­ed as the worst habit of male writ­ers with female char­ac­ters: if and when they have a one-on-one con­ver­sa­tion between anoth­er female char­ac­ter, it’s only about oth­er male char­ac­ters. Sure enough, L3 begins by insist­ing to Qi-ra that Han is in love with her, insist­ing by the objec­tive find­ings of her sen­sors — which Qi-ra unchar­ac­ter­is­ti­cal­ly denies like a bash­ful lit­tle girl before L3 con­tiues on about Lando’s long­time love for her, and why it must remain unre­quit­ed, which we are encour­aged to laugh at by the doubt Qi-ra voic­es with­out much hes­i­ta­tion regard­ing the hypo­thet­i­cal union’s sex­u­al mechan­ics because it’s so pre­pos­ter­ous.(I’ll get back to that in a moment.)

When the team arrives on Kessel and infil­trates the mine, L3 cre­ates a “dis­trac­tion” when she begins remov­ing the restrain­ing bolts from droids in the con­trol room, call­ing the prac­tice sav­age, or unciv­i­lized, or maybe bar­bar­ian — I don’t quite remem­ber. As she frees them with­out any notice­able detrac­tion from her duties as Seth Green of the heist — hack­ing con­trols, remote­ly open­ing doors, and all that — the droids begin to help free oth­ers in an expo­nen­tial­ly mul­ti­ply­ing cir­cle of lib­er­a­tion until they become a row­dy mob who’s cute acts of rebel­lion are spaced through­out a few min­utes of screen­time in short jump­cuts off the oth­er crew as they fight deep­er into the mine. With the most sig­nif­i­cant empha­sis ever placed upon Chew­bac­ca in Star Wars his­to­ry, he halts when he spies slave Wook­iees strug­gling to find off enforcers and informs Han that he’s going to break off and assist them. Since Chewie’s only allowed to speak to the audi­ence through Han’s retorts and nev­er direct­ly, it’s impos­si­ble to know how he phrased it, exact­ly, but from my per­spec­tive, his appeared to be the expres­sion of a wish to do what Han had to agree to release him to do, as would a mas­ter, not a “part­ner.” Of course, Solo does agree, albeit hes­i­tant­ly, because he’s The Good Guy, while quite incon­sid­er­ate­ly express­ing his desire to see Chewie again soon instead of wish­ing him suc­cess. How­ev­er, releas­ing him to free his peo­ple (as per his pri­ma­ry life goal, expressed before,) means that Han has to load twelve of the super heavy unre­fined Ura­ni­um tubes onto the cart all by him­self and push it ful­ly loaded at least 50 whole yards with­out the assis­tance of his big strong slave. Boy, what a pain in the ass! He’s spared his labor­ing, though, when Chew­bac­ca returns after no time at all with the enslaved Wook­iees he’s just hero­ical­ly res­cued, who he then imme­di­ate­ly asks to assist his mas­ter in push­ing the cart — per­form­ing the same labor they were forced to do under the enslave­ment they were sup­pos­ed­ly lib­er­at­ed from, sec­onds before.

The heist has inad­ver­tent­ly (nice, huge empha­sis on inad­ver­tent­ly) ignit­ed a slave rebel­lion through­out the mine, which serves the crew only as a dis­trac­tion for the guards. The chaos is inter­rupt­ed a half dozen times or so by those jump­cuts back to the con­trol room of adorable lit­tle droids enact­ing their piti­ful­ly amus­ing revenge on the equip­ment — slap­ping a key­board with a cook­ie sheet-like pan, stomp­ing on a con­trol pan­el, etc. — while L3 shouts par­o­d­i­cal qua­si-Marx­ist bat­tle­cries, which… yes… include refer­ring to the freed droids as “com­rades.” She even radios Lan­do at one point and tri­umphant­ly pro­claims that she’s “found her true call­ing.”

If and when a female char­ac­ter has a one-on-one con­ver­sa­tion with anoth­er female char­ac­ter, it’s only about oth­er male char­ac­ters.

By the time the Ura­ni­um cart is with­in its last few yards of the await­ing Fal­con, the riot has reached the land­ing bay and the guards around its perime­ter have read­just­ed their pri­or­i­ties to dis­abling the ship’s land­ing gear. This inter­rupts Lan­do in the cock­pit, who has cho­sen this time to work on dic­tat­ing his auto­bi­og­ra­phy because he’s a man who both­ers to dress­es him­self well and is there­fore oh so mani­a­cal­ly, com­i­cal­ly, and unrea­son­ably vain! How berserk! Still look­ing good as hell, he emerges and stands on the ramp to cov­er the rest of the crew’s return and load­ing of the dan­ger­ous Ura­ni­um with blaster fire, shout­ing the oblig­a­tory inter­mit­tent “come on, hur­ry up,” until L3appears, also fir­ing a blaster and shout­ing until she arrives in front of Lan­do, before notic­ing some com­mo­tion(?) with droids behind her and turn­ing around, again fer­vent­ly shout­ing more lib­er­a­tion cries. Lan­do doesn’t budge from the Fal­con’s side, but yells after her, until he watch­es as she is shot repeat­ed­ly and falls, prompt­ing him to run to her side. Filmed unnec­es­sar­i­ly grue­some­ly, her head and shoul­ders sep­a­rate from what’s left of her low­er body when he first tries to hoist her up. Of course, his reck­less­ness gets him shot in the arm, so Chewie returns to car­ry them both to the safe­ty of the ship, where the injured Lan­do holds her head lov­ing­ly in his arms for her last moments, repeat­ing “I can fix you, I can fix you.”

Now, I under­stand that Star Wars movies (or their reviews, for that mat­ter) are not the sort of enter­tain­ment one seeks out in order to exam­ine the dynam­ics of pow­er struc­tures or elab­o­rate cul­tur­al sym­bol­ism, but they all con­tain a sig­nif­i­cant amount of both. The ster­ile, cold, and bureau­crat­ic Galac­tic Empire is the British Empire, the Rebel­lion and the Repub­lic are the Unit­ed States or its colo­nial pre­cur­sors, the Jedi are vague­ly Native Amer­i­can, and the Death Star is the Boston Tea Par­ty. You’ve rec­og­nized this, I’m sure because it’s shoved in your ears most explic­it­ly by their accents, and less so in your face by aes­thet­ic influ­ences, tac­ti­cal philoso­phies, com­mand eti­quette, and pos­ture, even. Solo’s main char­ac­ter is soak­ing in Amer­i­can Old West­ness, which may or may not have led to its lib­er­al sat­u­ra­tion with the themes of indi­vid­ual rights, slav­ery, and lib­er­a­tion. Regard­less, they’re cer­tain­ly present, and most of them dis­turbing­ly for comedic effect.

As a silent char­ac­ter to the audi­ence, it’s under­stand­able that Chew­bac­ca had too many lim­i­ta­tions to occu­py a strong sec­ond to Han Solo’s lead in the narrative’s eye, and per­haps the rela­tion­ship between the two as por­trayed in the pre­vi­ous films reeked so strong­ly of servi­tude that it was an inevitable ele­ment when the time came to write them their very own movie. In direct con­trast to the firm place of all droids in the social hier­ar­chy of the last 9 movies — address­ing humans as “Mas­ter,” unapolo­get­i­cal­ly spo­ken of as prop­er­ty, and trad­ed and/or gift­ed as such by both pro­tag­o­nists and antag­o­nists, etc. — what we see of Lan­do and L3 togeth­er is a gen­uine­ly and com­plex­ly affec­tion­ate part­ner­ship between equals, which Solo makes an effort to empha­size, if only to laugh at.

In response to the forced vio­lence between two drones for spec­ta­tor sport, L3 is com­plete­ly enraged, and she cries (among oth­er things) “we are sen­tient!,” but her dis­tress is triv­i­al­ized as hys­ter­i­cal dis­trac­tion (see: Djan­go Unchained.) When she sug­gests to Qi-ra that Lan­do (who is already ille­git­imized as a cheat­ing nar­cis­sist, and there­fore effem­i­nate) is attract­ed to her, it’s a joke (which­many in my audi­ence laughed at) at the expense of her triv­i­al­ized sex­u­al­i­ty. After she tri­umphs and declares the lib­er­a­tion of her kind to be her true cause, she is imme­di­ate­ly destroyed fight­ing for its sake, yet her ide­ol­o­gy is not once acknowl­edged by her fleshy com­pan­ions, and her body is quick­ly gut­ted for the data on her “cen­tral pro­cess­ing unit” as it’s inter­faced with the Fal­con. Grant­ed, Lan­do does thought­ful­ly muse “she’s part of the ship now” short­ly after­ward, which would be nice, if you’d for­got­ten his last words were an out­right lie. Last­ly, it’s worth not­ing how apa­thet­ic the main char­ac­ters them­selves are toward the Kessel min­ers, espe­cial­ly as they are pack­ing up to leave, when the cam­era pans over the chaot­ic strug­gle between the lib­er­at­ed and their guards in very close prox­im­i­ty to the await­ing Fal­con, yet there was not a sug­ges­tion that they would even con­sid­erlet­ting them take refuge from the vio­lence in their very spa­cious freighter. Aside from Han’s or Qi-ra’s, Solo treats lib­er­a­tion as charm­ing or amus­ing, noth­ing more.

Any­way, the crown jew­el of Solo for many fans will prob­a­bly be the scene of the infa­mous Kessel Run, when Han Solo and Chew­bac­ca first take the helm(?) of the Mil­len­ni­um Fal­con with Lan­do injured and L3 dis­sect­ed, using her “nav­i­ga­tion­al data­base” to plot a very risky short­cut around the scary space cloud by the scary space squid and the scary space hole in order to make it to the site of the refin­ery before the volatile Ura­ni­um explodes. Once there, darn old flakey Lan­do fucks the hell of in the Fal­con right as the Cloud Rid­ers roll up, but whoa! their leader is actu­al­ly a very young woman with freck­les! She describes the atroc­i­ties of Crim­son Dawn and sug­gests that Han (who’snow the estab­lished deci­sion­mak­er for what­ev­er rea­son) give them the Ura­ni­um in order to estab­lish “the begin­ning of a rebel­lion,” which we can safe­ly assume is The Rebel­lion, which does beg one to won­der why Solo nev­er once bragged among the lat­er rebel­lion about hav­ing start­ed the whole thing in the oth­er films, con­sid­er­ing that — whad­dya know — he says yes!

Woody, how­ev­er, says he’s going to retire upon the news of this deci­sion before imme­di­ate­ly reap­pear­ing again on Scarred Jarvis’ yacht after he’s revealed to have betrayed the Ura­ni­um ruse to him. Qi-ra ends up killing Scarred Jarvis, sav­ing Han, but after promis­ing to fol­low him and escape, she rings up the late Scarred Jarvis’ boss — a Sith Zabrak who, I would argue, is not nec­es­sar­i­ly Darth Maul, though he prob­a­bly is — and informs him that her boss is dead and she’s assumed his post. As Han and Woody meet again in an Old West stand­off (com­plete with sand,) the lat­ter insists one more time that Qi-ra is not who Han thinks she is (as Jarvis and Qi-ra her­self have also said repeat­ed­ly,) describ­ing her as “a sur­vivor,” before Han kills him in self-defense.

Final­ly, after see­ing the Cloud Rid­ers off with the Ura­ni­um, Han finds Lan­do once again in a card game — this time tak­ing care to dis­able his sleight-of-hand device before­hand so that he wins the Mil­len­ni­um Fal­con, “fair and square,” and we cut to Solo (who seems remark­ably upbeat con­sid­er­ing the recent betray­al of the lover he’d longed years to reunite with) and Chewie in her cock­pit as they tie in that one last knot by declar­ing their des­ti­na­tion, Tatooine, before roar­ing off into hyper­space, leav­ing the cred­it roll in their wake.

Solo treats lib­er­a­tion as charm­ing or amus­ing, noth­ing more.

Over two years ago, I con­clud­ed my first work for Extra­tone about The Force Awak­ens by argu­ing that Star Wars on the big screen should be allowed to die in favor of invest­ing the time, ener­gy, and fund­ing they require in the pur­suit of some­thing new, but the indus­try still appears to believe that nos­tal­gia is a sur­er bet where prof­its are con­cerned, at least, even after two whole decades of mind-numb­ing rean­i­mat­ed prop­er­ties. I didn’t catch The Last Jedi until recent­ly, which was remark­ably well-done mea­sured against the oth­ers as a Star Wars movie, but cer­tain­ly didn’t aim to achieve much more. Clear­ly, there must be some truth in Hollywood’s cow­ardice about orig­i­nal prop­er­ties- espe­cial­ly when it comes to the sort of fan­ta­sy armed with potent but unguid­ed emo­tion­al bombs that define the Star Wars uni­verse, so it wouldn’t make much sense to revive my old dia­tribe, here. (Though I can assure you that I will be relent­less if this horse­shit con­tin­ues for much longer.) The Force Awak­ens and The Last Jedi, though, were episod­ic titles for the fam­i­ly, and these spin­offs that began with Rogue One are sup­posed to be for… well, I’m not entire­ly sure. In real­i­ty, they’ve only moved the prover­bial bar up a very wee bit to the fam­i­ly who occa­sion­al­ly says “shit,” because they’re not intel­lec­tu­al­ly stim­u­lat­ing enough to jus­ti­fy them­selves as Big Boy-only pro­duc­tions. Or, they wouldn’t be, were they not part of this fran­chise.

The truth is, the fans have grown up, and they… I… will still buy a tick­et for the small­est crumb of hope that a prod­uct of this huge machine will be capa­ble of mak­ing us feel even a frac­tion of what we felt as chil­dren watch­ing the orig­i­nal films. For me, The Force Awak­ens actu­al­ly did, once, in that blast of horns before the open­ing crawl, but it hasn’t hap­pened since, and I should cer­tain­ly stop expect­ing or want­i­ng to expect that it will. For oth­ers, it’s still work­ing. Though there was a frac­tion of who I expect­ed to be in atten­dance with me, they did laugh at a hand­ful of (most­ly fas­cist) moments, and whooped, hollered, and even clapped for a few sec­onds at the end. I’m sur­prised open­ing night wasn’t packed because Port­land is the sin­gle most nos­tal­gia-addict­ed cul­ture I’ve ever seen any­where in the Unit­ed States. Then again, there are a bil­lion the­aters here, so per­haps the sam­ple is just lousy. We’ll see how tomor­row and Sun­day go, but I’d be sur­prised if any box­of­fice records were bro­ken.

In the past, when film enthu­si­asts and­fans have described Han Solo as “the best char­ac­ter in Star Wars,” they’ve actu­al­ly been prais­ing his poten­tial as a char­ac­ter, not his mate­r­i­al itself, and Solo’s most effec­tive func­tion as a fran­chise film was to shut that praise down. Han was not at all denied his movie — this is his movie — and it pro­vid­ed him the screen­time to show us who he tru­ly is and why we real­ly like him so much: he doesn’t fuck­ing change. The secret to Han Solo’s moral and emo­tion­al resilien­cy is noth­ing more than halt­ed devel­op­ment. The same old inner con­flict between the tough, ruth­less­ly self-inter­est­ed per­sona he does his best to project for every­one around him and the con­sis­tent real­i­ty of his soft insides was pre­sent­ed in his first scene way back in 1977, and we’re now sure that he was unable to make any progress toward its res­o­lu­tion despite open­ly and obvi­ous­ly brood­ing over it for an entire life­time: from at least as ear­ly as his young adult­hood in this film until his death at the hands of his lit­tle Sith son. There is 0 vari­a­tion. He always comes back for the cause at the cru­cial moment after declar­ing him­self through with it. With­out fail, he’ll sac­ri­fice the entire­ty of any self-mak­ing enter­prise for just about any under­dog with a prob­lem who cross­es his path. (Which prob­a­bly explains his con­stant­ly-fleet­ing suc­cess as a smug­gler well into gray hair and jowls.) Solo is abun­dant­ly clear about Han’s true nature and very will­ing to expose how unin­ter­est­ing it is. When he first pro­claims to Qi-ra that he’s become “an out­law,” she shuts him down with the film’s ulti­mate quote, insist­ing that she “knows who [he] real­ly is: the good guy.

If the video game-despis­ing fans will bear with me for a moment, it’s worth not­ing that Bioware’s Star Wars: The Old Repub­lic MMORPG is the most inter­est­ing and exten­sive source of nuanced nar­ra­tive in the IP (it holds the world record for the largest voiceover project ever pro­duced,) and most of it can now be expe­ri­enced with­out actu­al­ly play­ing the game. Like Solo, it’s set pre-saga, but con­sid­er­ably before — a few cen­turies, if I remem­ber cor­rect­ly, which gave the writ­ers a gigan­tic oppor­tu­ni­ty to both expand and pre­des­tine the uni­verse. There are eight dif­fer­ent class sto­ries with around 50 cumu­la­tive hours of dia­log, each. A few are rel­a­tive­ly unimag­i­na­tive, but the major­i­ty are com­plex, excit­ing, emo­tion­al­ly-involved tales that cre­ate very rich char­ac­ters, and all of them can be streamed in their entire­ty on YouTube. If you are will­ing to see the poten­tial of a Han Solo-like char­ac­ter ful­filled in a dif­fer­ent medi­um, the Smug­gler class sto­ry is a pret­ty damned engag­ing explo­ration of the kind out­law with con­flict­ed iden­ti­ty issues angle.

From my per­spec­tive, Solo’s fre­quent less-than-sub­tle mal­treat­ment of some very bru­tal and sen­si­tive pow­er rela­tion­ships makes it the most tox­ic of the Star Wars films yet, and I assume it end­ed up that way, unnec­es­sar­i­ly because Ron Howard is an all-Amer­i­can son of a bitch. If these titles are going to con­tin­ue to be passed around between big­whig direc­tors, future unpleas­antries are inevitable. Notably, I’ve yet to see any men­tion of these dis­turb­ing themes from the respectable author­i­ties of the film crit­i­cism estab­lish­ment, who’ve been over­whelm­ing­ly charmed by Solo’s nos­tal­gia. Take from that what­ev­er you will.

If we con­tin­ue to love the char­ac­ter Han Solo, it’ll be in the same way we love our earnest, fool­ish, emo­tion­al­ly-stunt­ed man­child fathers who’s devel­op­men­tal inad­e­qua­cies are often embar­rass­ing, some­times abu­sive, and thor­ough­ly piti­ful. Solo leaves no more room for an ide­al­ized, ele­gant per­cep­tion of this char­ac­ter — he’s no more than a pret­ty good guy with a life­long addic­tion to thrill-seek­ing and a shit­load of luck.

To declare unequiv­o­cal­ly whether or not Solo: A Star Wars Sto­ry is worth a trip the cin­e­ma with your date, your chil­dren, or just your own damned con­science would require me to dis­re­gard a whole host of com­pli­cat­ing fac­tors, but if you’ve stuck it this far with me, you’d have a lot to dis­re­gard your­self to jump in. I’d advise that par­ents watch it them­selves before decid­ing whether or not it’s some­thing worth adding to your child’s life. Of those of you like me who’ll tow the line despite what you know and watch a Star Wars film alone on open­ing night in delir­i­um hop­ing for just a drop from the Foun­tain of Youth, I would ask: how long are we real­ly going to keep kid­ding our­selves?

Mark Fuck and the Goof God

Today, after posit­ing on whether or not a pas­try was in fact the name­sake of the bat­tle­ship Bis­mar­ck, I was told by its own­er — a local woman of a far-from-excus­able age — that “[I] should be on that big bang show.” Upon such fuck­ery, I looked her in her eyes and informed her that she’d just changed my plans for the night: I was now going to go home, wrap my lips around the bar­rel of my Beretta, and blow my brains out. I should’ve known bet­ter than to so jest with a boomer imme­di­ate­ly after receiv­ing such glar­ing indi­ca­tors of min­i­mal intel­lec­tu­al func­tion, but I fell for the hope — as I often do, to no avail — that such a jar­ring reac­tion would encour­age reflec­tion on her foul, trag­i­cal­ly mis­led sen­ti­ments regard­ing the gen­er­al state of youth, and per­haps even spare a peer or two from future tribu­la­tion.

Instead, she called the police.

Three round cops found me, an hour lat­er, approach­ing hes­i­tant­ly. Strange­ly enough, they were chuck­ling — maybe to a lit­tle joke about all the recent hub­bub on the radio cov­er­ing a recent wave of bla­tant­ly neg­li­gent med­ical care in Amer­i­can pris­ons, though I hope ner­vous laugh­ter is just SOP when respond­ing to a sui­cide threat. As all Colum­bia cops always are toward me, they were aggra­vat­ing­ly gen­uine and hilar­i­ous­ly under­stand­ing. I began by sim­ply recre­at­ing my inter­ac­tion with their sum­mon­er, quot­ing her word-for-word, and — I swear to my new Lord — all three imme­di­ate­ly released a choral “ohh­h­hh” in uni­son. I’ll nev­er know for sure if they actu­al­ly assim­i­lat­ed the real­i­ty of the sit­u­a­tion so quick­ly, but it’d cer­tain­ly seem that way.

Clear­ly, I should’ve threat­ened her life.

Despite the day-to-day expres­sion of our recur­ring wis­doms, habits, instincts, pat­terns and cycles of cul­tur­al meta­mor­pho­sis in the dis­course, the stream of “well, you know they were sayin’ the world was going to end when I was in ele­men­tary school” to my ear has fall­en abrupt­ly silent since the inau­gu­ra­tion. Our par­ents and grand­par­ents are both impos­si­bly for­tu­nate and unfor­tu­nate, hav­ing to duck out as the most mul­ti­plica­tive (read: sick­est) cere­bral orgy in the his­to­ry of mankind will just’ve begun nib­bling on the slope to its cli­max. We’ll be lucky if we’ll still be able to artic­u­late our good­byes by the time they reach the door. Non­sense does a fuckin num­ber on per­ceived wis­dom, but the gaps are widen­ing at a dan­ger­ous pace. Tec­ton­ic or domes­tic, we are all strad­dling expand­ing space, and the chill of its draft is now steal­ing too much of our heat to ignore.

Though it is enter­tain­ing in the moment (and oth­er­wise redun­dant,) it would not be well-to-do of me now — nor was it, then — to leave the con­ver­sa­tion in edgy absur­di­ty. Though a part of me would like to cam­paign for Shel­don to be reclas­si­fied as an exple­tive, in dis­gust, I must — as an adult in all-out sprint to make up for stalled emo­tion­al devel­op­ment — note that such a dis­play of con­cern should’ve been at least rec­i­p­ro­cat­ed with a bit of expla­na­tion, if not appre­ci­a­tion, though I won’t con­done wast­ing pub­lic employ­ee time for a mis­un­der­stood retort from a com­plete stranger.

It’s not news — the The­o­ry is pro­vid­ing some ghoul­ish­ly skewed por­tray­al of less-than-forty pseudoin­tel­lec­tu­als. Though my savior’s time is obvi­ous­ly worth very lit­tle to her, the fact that she spent any quan­ti­ty of any­thing at all engag­ing with even a decid­ed­ly main­stream gen­er­a­tional­ly ambas­sado­r­i­al bridge could be regard­ed — if stretched — as the result of a curi­ous seed, which has sky­rock­et­ed in human val­ue, as of late. It is undis­cour­agable. Read the trail a bit, and you’ll find that your frus­tra­tion is sim­ply an expres­sion of the ter­ror that’s ignit­ed by the stag­nan­cy of their pace.

It’s great that you’ve man­aged to inch over to mod­ern-ish sit­coms from Judge Judy and Inde­pen­dence Day, mom, but you’re gonna have to real­ly pick up the pace and work on fol­low­ing a few body mod­i­fi­ca­tion com­mu­ni­ties on the dark­net.

If an absence of solu­tions are the crux of the blog, here I’m now gloat­ing.

To whom does the com­mon­er look to for such solu­tions when they’d pre­fer not to ter­ror­ize their kooky mid­dle age par­ents into a half cen­tu­ry of bru­tal fast­ing under vows of silence?

The Big Thinkers! The Men of the Hour.

Yes, men. All Big Bum­bling Bil­lion­aire Imbe­ciles.

Elon Musk can­not be the Nico­la Tes­la of the 21st cen­tu­ry, or even the 20th, for that mat­ter, because lit­er­al­ly every mechan­i­cal­ly-mind­ed pro­fes­sion­al I’ve ever heard talk about bat­tery tech­nol­o­gy has con­demned it in some man­ner as an inescapable dead end, devel­op­men­tal­ly. Per­haps, then, the cham­pi­on of elec­tro­chem­i­cal stor­age is the* False Prophet.

No, I’m not capa­ble of cit­ing research or con­jur­ing Mars-capa­ble space­craft, but I’ve been a bit too pre­oc­cu­pied with my country’s class war and its 10% adult illit­er­a­cy rate. It’s all well and good to be privy to roman­ti­cism, but it’s not the 1960s any­more. Even Howard Hugh­es would be more con­cerned for the well­ness of the species than our con­tin­ued reach for the stars, were he still alive.

Well. Maybe not… Charles Lind­bergh would be, though.

We spent the 1990s prepar­ing to rid our­selves of his­to­ry because the smartest among us fore­saw some fac­sim­i­le of the renais­sance we are cur­rent­ly expe­ri­enc­ing. If they’dT been shown a glimpse of some sta­tis­tics on the vol­ume of media we con­sume, they’d exclaim of their pride — no doubt — in their species’ capa­bil­i­ty to progress, and per­haps even their own con­tri­bu­tion to it. How­ev­er, extend­ed obser­va­tion of an aver­age American’s day-to-day life would be lament­ed, in dis­gust, and a huge por­tion of the blame can be placed on one t-shirt-tout­ing cyberyokel: Mark Zucker­berg. His name is stu­pid, his spawn is ruin­ing my life, and he con­tin­ues to insist upon say­ing shit that fright­ens the beje­sus out of me. Zuck­brain is fuck­ing scary. “Wiring the globe” is fuck­ing scary. Jarvis is fuck­ing scary. But Fuck, him­self wouldn’t be at all intim­i­dat­ing with­out his mon­ey. The scari­est bit is the lack of class in the crit­i­cisms of his intel­lec­tu­al influ­ence. Farhad Manjoo’s atten­tion has been dili­gent and pre­mi­um as a Timeser’s should be, but the same occu­pa­tion bars him from author­ing with the col­or of unsub­stan­ti­at­ed claims. Mine does not.

Elon Musk is not an apolo­getic genius. He’s will­ing to joke about his intel­lec­tu­al dis­tance from the plan­et and its pop­u­lace on Twit­ter. Appar­ent­ly, his mind’s even sur­passed the need to punc­tu­ate. Crazy.

Google is well on it’s way to becom­ing the neo-Vat­i­­can… yada yada yada, but they’re too far gone — I do not have the exper­tise to address them. Fuck, though, is a sin­gu­lar short-sleeved, Even Stevens-haired young man with­out so much as pri­vate office space (even though his sen­ti­ments on breath­ing room at home are obvi­ous­ly inverse.)

Clear­ly, it’s all just to pro­tect him from the truth:

The Apos­tle John’s Book of Rev­e­la­tion is about Face­book.

Fuck’s cyber­child is the horse­man, the beasts, and the plagues, stuffed into one tyran­ni­cal web­site.

And the smoke of their tor­ment ascen­deth up for ever and ever: and they have no rest day nor night, who wor­ship the beast and his image, and whoso­ev­er receiveth the mark of his name.

If I can repeat­ed­ly trig­ger acci­den­tal voice calls on Fuck­book Mes­sen­ger, don’t tell me it’s not pos­si­ble to inad­ver­tent­ly live stream myself on the pot.

The beast that thou sawest was, and is not; and shall ascend out of the bot­tom­less pit, and go into perdi­tion: and they that dwell on the earth shall won­der, whose names were not writ­ten in the book of life from the foun­da­tion of the world, when they behold the beast that was, and is not, and yet is.

Of course, it’s unlike­ly that Mark’s essence was bred entire­ly of evil, but — like Tump, in many ways — he is an excru­ci­at­ing­ly wealthy idiot. Though he is spend­ing 2017 tour­ing the Unit­ed States, he doesn’t seem to be all that inter­est­ed in actu­al­ly clos­ing the gap between him­self and the rest of us, which sug­gests that he only wants us to throw us off his extra-ter­res­tri­al, xeno­pho­bic scent. I can’t imag­ine what The Moth­er­ship would real­ly want with my Ama­zon brows­ing his­to­ry, though.

And anoth­er angel came out of the tem­ple, cry­ing with a loud voice to him that sat on the cloud, Thrust in thy sick­le, and reap: for the time is come for thee to reap; for the har­vest of the earth is ripe.

Just to be clear, he is not The Antikhris­tos. He’d bet­ter not be, any­way. I’d be absolute­ly Livid with Lucifer if his choice of a fig­ure­head for his Big Plan was such a Fuck­ing dork .

Remem­ber there­fore from whence thou art fall­en, and repent, and do the first works; or else I will come unto thee quick­ly, and will remove thy can­dle­stick out of his place, except thou repent.

I mean… if Fuck want­ed to spend his time craft­ing 6000-word essays, why the Fuck didn’t he just build a Fuck­ing CMS back in his Jesse Eisen­berg era instead of the actu­al week­­ly-updat­ed tow­er of dig­i­tal Baby­lon? Sure­ly, Satan would know bet­ter than to waste resources and pul­ver­ize cre­ativ­i­ty by order­ing his Demon­ic Dev team to release reg­u­lar builds for build’s sake rather than on a per-need basis, but that’d be because The Tempter is an author­i­ty on incen­tives as thor­ough­ly as Fuck isn’t.

If you’re equipped with the priv­i­lege of lit­er­a­cy, you’ve been read­ing a lot about Fuckbook’s polit­i­cal con­se­quences, recent­ly. Frankly, it’s about Fuck­ing time, but I’m com­pelled to empha­size that the most sig­nif­i­cant motor dri­ving the poli­tik is fueled by the eldest, fos­silized por­tions of our thought meat. Accord­ing to Man­joo, “the News Feed team’s ulti­mate mis­sion is to fig­ure out what users want,” dip­ping in Fuckbook’s ocean of action data, search­ing for a soul.

Yet anoth­er Fuck­ism that sug­gests he’s an alien: every­body knows that nobody knows what they want.

There’s a cen­tral mechan­ic of our brains that by nature wreaks a whole hel­lu­va lot of con­tra­dic­tion. If you’ve ever men­tioned ADHD with your doc­tor, or know a hypochondriac/adderall fiend who has, you may have heard it described as “the lizard brain.” Sim­ply put, it’s the brain stem, and it’s respon­si­ble for the most basal and prim­i­tive­ly emo­tion­al instincts and habits; an anti-intel­lec­­tu­al agi­tant, argu­ing at all times for the course of action with the most imme­di­ate grat­i­fi­ca­tion. The Great Click­bait War of 2013 was a star­tling demon­stra­tion that revealed the strength of the hold Fuck­book had (and still has) on these rep­til­ian bits — the true loca­tion of its pow­er.

In sur­veys, peo­ple kept telling Face­book that they hat­ed teas­ing head­lines. But if that was true, why were they click­ing on them?”

Voli­tion is the Word of the Day.

Here, we must once again invoke an ancient para­ble from the wise fore­tellings of the Dis­ney film, Smart House: when deal­ing with human beings, bound­less com­pli­ance quick­ly leads to abject mis­ery for all par­ties involved.

Mind­less­ly, habit­u­al­ly , end­less­ly click­ing … this is how we die.

Some­thing about Fuck’s direc­tion is fun­da­men­tal­ly poi­so­nous to the human mind. Yes, he is assured­ly too Fuck­ing demo­c­ra­t­ic, but mis­in­for­ma­tion is far from the only form of evil his cre­ation has assumed. If you can jog your mem­o­ry back a bit, you’ll remem­ber a much wider vari­ety of brain-rot­t­ing filth.

In laps­es of their exis­tences’ fini­tude, the 40-some­thing sec­ond cousins of the world may still send you the occa­sion­al Can Crunch Saga invite, jar­ring you back to Jr. High in 2009, and for­ev­er asso­ci­at­ing them­selves in your mind with the hor­rors of mor­tal­i­ty and

f u c k b o o k g a m e s .

More than one sixth of all liv­ing eyes see Fuck­book every sin­gle day, plac­ing its con­sump­tion behind only eat­ing and drink­ing as the most uni­ver­sal­ly human activ­i­ty. Mr. Fuck achieved his vision and became per­haps the great­est pur­vey­or of words who’s ever lived. He’s taught (or… is teach­ing) us a few very pro­found things about our­selves.

Capa­bil­i­ty is not the whole of the equa­tion.
Abil­i­ty on its own can­not guar­an­tee growth, but it can often result in decay.
Dis­cus­sion does not inher­ent­ly lead to con­nec­tion.
Pop­u­la­tion is not a cure for iso­la­tion.

That said, I must begrudg­ing­ly admit to you that I, myself am one of the 100 mil­lion users who’ve depend­ed upon a “very mean­ing­ful” Face­book group for a “phys­i­cal sup­port struc­ture” for which I have Fuck to thank.

I’ve spent half of my exis­tence watch­ing cheesy barn­storm­ing movies, whirling around die-cast biplanes, seek­ing out sto­ries from old pilots — mil­i­tary and com­mer­cial, and even­tu­al­ly trained to become one myself. As reg­u­lar activ­i­ties at young ages do, avi­a­tion became deeply ingrained into my iden­ti­ty, but my local com­mu­ni­ty is very sparse — it’s not exact­ly cool, these days. On Fuck­book, an unof­fi­cial group for mem­bers of the Air­craft Own­ers and Pilots Asso­ci­a­tion has allowed me to stay con­nect­ed to the rest of the world’s Soar­ing Nerds, which is no small deal. It’s the only forum which I am com­pelled to par­tic­i­pate in with 100% sin­cer­i­ty and emo­tion­al effect.

Pho­tos of mem­bers stand­ing proud­ly next to their first air­plane, or of ado­les­cent stu­dents in a sim­i­lar pose after their first solo, or of three old white rubes on a hangar pic­nic, laugh­ing around a fold-up table full of rudi­men­ta­ry ham sand­wich­es in front of two gleam­ing Stear­mans…

They tug around on my heart like noth­ing else in life can.

I stopped fly­ing lessons at 16 because I began to see behind the naivety of my child­hood per­cep­tion of what it meant to fly com­mer­cial­ly and real­ized that I was unequipped for- and unin­ter­est­ed in the sort of chal­lenges it pre­sent­ed. I haven’t flown in sev­en years, but the com­mu­ni­ty will always have a tremen­dous div­i­dend of my core being.

These days, not a sin­gle per­son in my day-to-day life knows or cares about avi­a­tion, which wouldn’t be laud­able what­so­ev­er were it not so emo­tion­al­ly nec­es­sary for me.

A few days ago, a mem­ber shared a pho­to with the group of Charles Lindbergh’s mod­i­fied Ryan cock­pit, cap­tioned “what air­plane am I?”

In my youth, Lind­bergh ful­filled my clos­est equiv­a­lent to the ‘child­hood hero’ role. My grand­moth­er bought me a first-edi­­tion copy of The Spir­it of St.Louis from a small town book­shop when I was six or sev­en, and I car­ried it lit­er­al­ly every­where with me until mid­dle school. I watched the Jim­my Stew­art film tens and tens of times, and I cried when I saw the Spir­it in the flesh at the Smith­son­ian, yet I’ve nev­er had an informed con­ver­sa­tion about any of it with anoth­er human being. It real­ly warmed me to see how many of the com­ments were cor­rect answers.

Break­ing news: it’s nice to know that there are oth­er peo­ple on Earth who give a shit about the same things you do.

Again — aspi­ra­tion should always be encour­aged. This is Fuck’s vision for his cre­ation, and it is fea­si­ble, even for myself. At least his pub­lic per­sona — how­ev­er valid or invalid it may be — is mak­ing a huge effort to have pos­i­tive con­se­quence, even if his idio­cy is imbu­ing itself in all of human­i­ty. Fuck is too pow­er­ful to be exempt­ed from respon­si­bil­i­ty for what Fuckbook’s done to the West­ern psy­che over the past decade, but — like the Chris­t­ian god — per­haps all we need require is his repen­tance.

He that is unjust, let him be unjust still: and he which is filthy, let him be filthy still: and he that is right­eous, let him be right­eous still: and he that is holy, let him be holy still.

O’er the Ice for Stupefied Usury

I man­aged to be reck­less, tedious, and zeal­ous in the usu­al­ly-dry process of pur­chas­ing a new lap­top, and found the sto­ry worth shar­ing.

The mete­o­ro­log­i­cal com­plaints you’ve been hear­ing from mid-Mis­souri since Fri­day aren’t inap­pro­pri­ate this time — the mid­dle­folk faced one of their most fatal ene­mies — a well-laid mine­field of black ice. It slowed our timid, ABS-obliv­i­ous soci­ety to ten per­cent or less of its already near-post­mortem pace. (For God’s sake, at least learn why you needn’t pump your brakes before you opt for info­tain­ment extras or… get your driver’s license.)I woke up with the same debt and immi­nent expens­es as I did the day before and with­out any more inten­tion of buy­ing a pre­mi­um lap­top than I’ve had for the two years I’ve gone with­out one.

With­out the con­cept of mobile com­put­ing in its entire­ty, actu­al­ly. I knew I’d lost my desire to car­ry a loose blue­tooth key­board around every­where in case some insight were to fall upon me heavy enough to jus­ti­fy reach­ing for it over my 6S Plus in a pub­lic venue, hunched and squint­ing. There’s still noth­ing bet­ter at crank­ing out copy than the Lap Top Com­put­er, I sup­pose. I was hold­ing out for a tru­ly-sub­stan­tial alter­na­tive to Win­dows 10 and macOS, want­i­ng to be enchant­ed by lite delights like Acer’s cheeky Chrome­book R11, but had decid­ed in self-pity that I’d prob­a­bly nev­er be able to stand a new oper­at­ing sys­tem ever again.

My mom gra­cious­ly decid­ed to take me mall shop­ping for Christ­mas, which is com­fort­ing in its tra­di­tion of vapid rou­tine. The state of a giv­en mid­west­ern metropolis’s mall is a keen indi­ca­tor of the culture’s soul, I’ve found, and ours is most­ly crewed by des­ti­tute alco­holics, who are my clos­est kin, and there­fore my most appro­pri­ate com­pa­ny for the hol­i­days.

Dillard’s is the sec­ond-best-place to lose your mind in Amer­i­ca.

Even now, when the somber cor­ners are not quite so des­o­late. The acoustic sen­sa­tion can­not be expe­ri­enced any­where else — the bat­tle­cries of the Me Generation’s pop repro­duced by hate­ful diaphragms behind their white plas­tic ceil­ing facades and absorbed again by pal­let­loads of mass-man­u­fac­tured stonewashed den­im, seem­ing­ly com­ing from a far-off whole­sale nether no mat­ter where in the store you’ve been buried. Ours is a few decades old, now — weath­ered and alone, which accen­tu­ates the whole dystopia with a res­olute air of infin­i­ty, as if it’s cer­tain it will out­last me. It prob­a­bly will.

The last time I was in the mar­ket for a lap­top, there was lit­tle room for aes­thet­ics in the equa­tion. We have been taught this past decade that beau­ti­ful devices come in fruit form, only. Some­how, I allowed myself to inte­grate the ridicu­lous sen­ti­ment that Mac­Books were the only option for any­one with any rev­er­ence for tac­tile expe­ri­ence. As I expect you’re aware of to at least some degree by now, Apple’s dili­gent study of desir­abil­i­ty over the years is the sin­gu­lar force behind their lord­ship, and it’s the token MO of tech opin­ion to con­fuse it with sex appeal, result­ing in expres­sions like “[apple hard­ware device] is sexy,” which is a pity­ing­ly des­per­ate delu­sion. Do you actu­al­ly find brushed alu­minum appeal­ing in any bod­i­ly sense?

We did once, of course. Your infat­u­a­tion with the stuff prob­a­bly peaked the moment you first grazed it, and — if you’re any­thing like me — you could be har­bor­ing more aes­thet­ic frus­tra­tion with their long­stand­ing occu­pa­tion than you think. Infat­u­a­tion must be starved to sur­vive, and we’ve been eat­ing up Apples by the bushel for a decade.

Haha.

But real­ly, though — by the bil­lion.

I saw images in that Spec­tre review which I was com­plete­ly sat­is­fied with. I watched that new HP logo as it trav­eled through the frames, stu­pe­fied. Out of pre­cious igno­rance, I expe­ri­enced real desire in that unde­sir­able place. (Which could actu­al­ly rep­re­sent some sort of defeat on my part, but I’m not too both­ered.)

And in the midst of those des­o­late peo­ple in their fortress of medi­oc­rity, my mom and I hatched a plan to indulge upon the best part of des­o­la­tion — impul­sive, sub­si­dized glut­tony. We’d stop by the phar­ma­cy to fill my anti-depres­sant script before renav­i­gat­ing Bour­geois Bumper Cars to get to Best Buy, where she’d let me use her cred­it line to pur­chase my final choice in the seg­ment.

Best Buy is the best place to lose your mind in Amer­i­ca.

I could’ve sworn it made good sense to me, once — in Mid­dle School, when my friend and I were spend­ing most of our free time emu­lat­ing the first gen­er­a­tion of tech-review­ing YouTu­bers — but now, it reminds me of a dark­wood restau­rant with its clos­ing flu­o­res­cents on, shin­ing in the inverse fre­quen­cy of a bug zap­per — cast­ing a more effec­tive­ly-repelling ambiance for the human psy­che than any­thing else I’m capa­ble of dream­ing up, at least.

I used to fuck­ing vis­it that store for no pur­pose but to see and expe­ri­ence the dilut­ed bit of the hand­set renais­sance with enough momen­tum to coast its way here. I prob­a­bly spent a full six­ty min­utes wan­der­ing around by my own voli­tion on a hand­ful of occa­sions. But these days, I am per­turbed from the onset in a big way. There are too many blue vape enthu­si­asts on the sales floor at any giv­en time, and they all want me to leave. They loaf around the car­cass of con­sumer technology’s pas­sion, not real­iz­ing, I guess, that I already know it ’twas they who killed it. (The stench is strongest by the wear­ables.) It’s eerie how lit­tle the Big Box itself has changed, con­sid­er­ing the decade their goods have trav­eled.

Under a fit­ting­ly-gray sky, I wash my pill down with La Croix and a Kind bar to pre­empt the appro­pri­ate rumi­na­tion in my mouth as we inch toward my Final Finan­cial Doom with the spooked slid­ers. Though we nev­er exceed 5mph, there are aban­doned vehi­cles lit­ter­ing the shoul­ders and medi­ans in vary­ing­ly absurd ori­en­ta­tions. But I do not jest — today, I am silent, for I am one of them.

By the time we reach the store, my med­i­cine has once again placed my soul in Safe Mode, so we shuf­fle into the grotesque thing. There are four employ­ees in sight — no one else — and they all send their beady eyes my way. I have too much pur­pose in my con­sumerist jowls to pause, though, so I rush to the lap­tops near the oppo­site wall in an attempt to get an ear­ly esti­mate on my cur­rent lev­el of per­son­al com­put­ing idio­cy. Nat­u­ral­ly, my Mom snags one of anoth­er four asso­ciates imme­di­ate­ly. In this work, I shall refer to him as Zoroast­er.

Despite hav­ing nev­er seen 80% of the dis­played devices in per­son before, I am able to spot the Spec­tres quick­ly, which is a good sign. I am imme­di­ate­ly elat­ed by the con­trast to the depress­ing mush­books I remem­ber HP mak­ing in the oughts. The bezel… the bril­liance of the dis­play… the details of the vis­i­ble body. I open Extra­tone. I open The Verge. I am hop­ing that Win­dows 10 will not be as much of a kick­er as I’ve expect­ed.

I’m not a minute before Mom and Zoroast­er have found the new Mac­Book Pros. Nobody remem­bers the pass­word to the 13-inch, but the 15 is show­ing off its “deep blacks” and “Space Gray” mood. The Verge looks phe­nom­e­nal, and its icon in the touch­bar catch­es my eye. I man­age to use it to switch tabs, the less-attuned degen­er­ate in me not­ing the extra span­ning required over CMD-TAB.

Have you tried the new key­board?” asks Zoroast­er.

I hadn’t. It’s as inde­scrib­able as you’ve heard, but sug­gests legit­i­ma­cy is Apple’s effort to bridge the tran­si­tion from phys­i­cal key­boards to their touch replace­ment. Ter­ri­fy­ing legit­i­ma­cy.

You get used to it,” he says.

I open Pages and click out some­thing ridicu­lous. Yeah… click. I’m sure there’s a bet­ter ono­matopoeia avail­able by way of just about any tech­nol­o­gy web­site, but I didn’t both­er to study the sen­sa­tion after real­iz­ing that it’s a con for my num­ber one use of a Portable Com­put­er: clack­ing.

It’s not as if the thing isn’t gor­geous, though, in its way. After years of user­ship, I can tell you that it is undoubt­ed­ly a superb exe­cu­tion of the Mac­Book mar­que. It’s pol­ished. It’s The New One. But it is also bleak and slateish. Some might even say dystopi­an.

Do I want to car­ry such a thing around with me every­where? Do I even want to car­ry it out of the store? What will I tell my friends?

What will I tell my staff?

$2,000 of my future spent on what is now a piece of dis­tinct­ly estab­lish­ment design… I return to the x360 to see what can be done about Win­dows’ appear­ance these days.

Pur­ple-gray taskbars… Hm.

It’s a sale.

Let me be hon­est with you — I spent some nine­ty min­utes going between the two. Even if I’d endured the shame and self-dis­ap­point­ment of choos­ing the Mac­Book Pro, the sim­ple grunt of the chal­lenge the Spec­tre presents to it is no small mile­stone. As Zoroast­er scram­bles to remove my new machine from The Hang­ing Jail, I am drained from the deci­sion, but aware that my per­spec­tive on the world has changed. I’ve been work­ing on an edi­to­r­i­al for the past few weeks that’s most­ly alarmed howl­ing about the industry’s utter lack of pas­sion, as of late, but see­ing the Win­dows-run­ning department’s devices and their matured design — final­ly beau­ti­ful with­out obvi­ous Apple influ­ence — had tru­ly revived some lit­tle flame of hope with­in me.

Lithe Zoroast­er was con­fused by UPCs a bit, as is under­stand­able, and began jug­gling three Spec­tre box­es atop the prison lift, scream­ing the num­bers — one at a time from each device — to his bewil­dered dis­ci­ple, below.Throughout the lat­er half of the whole ordeal, I’d had com­pa­ny — some sort of blonde work­ing man who’d also braved the fric­tion­less waste to calm him­self with debt. I’d been elat­ed at the oppor­tu­ni­ty for com­pan­ion­ship, at first, but he’d found him­self unable to escape the store’s bespoke Apple Hole. I did my best to help him, but failed hoist his girth from the 15’s bench­mark suc­tion. I’d left him there, bound. May my dreams n’er be haunt­ed by the fad­ing por­trait of his tor­tured, mid­dle class face.

As the Best Boys did their dance, he somber­ly came to my side. The gri­mace he’d worn in the strug­gle had fall­en away. I knew what was com­ing before he formed the defeat­ed words: “go ahead and grab me the 500 while you’re up there.” As one should when they stum­ble upon a stranger’s funer­al, I bowed my head.

Here begins the part that sor­ta makes me look like an idiot… After sign­ing my mother’s lengthy loan agree­ment, Zoroast­er — the lit­tle dev­il — asked if I want­ed the Spe­cial Edi­tion, just behind me. I’d stopped by last year’s Big Boy Spec­tre — the ball­sy-ass cop­per-toned mas­ter­piece — and had wished for a moment that the look could’ve car­ried to the fresh­er x360. The mono­space Hewlett-Packard logo blind­ed me, and the unlit dis­play (it hadn’t been set up yet) con­cealed the wider bezel of… The old­er Spec­tre 13t, with which I write, now. I didn’t notice my blun­der until after our treach­er­ous return, and could not care less.