Microsoft Edge for iOS

Soft­ware reviews (espe­cial­ly of mobile browsers,) may seem a bit tedious, but tech pub­li­ca­tions are frus­trat­ing­ly hes­i­tant to express any sub­stan­tial favor, these days. Mobile browsers have been our pri­ma­ry vehi­cle to The Web for years now, which means we should expect the best expe­ri­ence pos­si­ble, so I com­mit­ted to spend­ing one week with Microsoft Edge in my iPhone 8’s #1 brows­er seat to see how it com­pares with the lot of cur­rent­ly avail­able web browsers on iOS: Safari, Fire­fox, Chrome, Brave, and Opera Mini.

After using Safari since the last time it was the best choice (which was uh… quite a while ago,) the speed of my ini­tial surf­ing on Edge was very impres­sive and imme­di­ate­ly evi­dent along with the for­eign con­trast of its stub­born­ly on-brand UI design which is matched impres­sive­ly well with its Win­dows 10 kin. It feels just a bit more open and less intru­sive than Safari or Chrome, and its cus­tom but­tons and menus are a refresh­ing change if you’ve grown tired of iOS’ look, though they’re still pret­ty ugly. Scrolling through web­pages feels quick­er, but it’s not quite as smooth as Safari, and nei­ther espe­cial­ly are its respons­es to swip­ing ges­tures.

Microsoft empha­sized bring­ing “famil­iar” fea­tures “like your Favorites, Read­ing List, New Tab Page and Read­ing View” on the go, and while these are indeed famil­iar, they are not par­tic­u­lar­ly wel­come. Edge was a good idea and unde­ni­ably the best brows­er with which to use a touch­screen on Win­dows 10, but it now feels unstur­dy and bro­ken com­pared with updat­ed desk­top alter­na­tives, so there’s very lit­tle incen­tive right now to use Edge for iOS for its #1 fea­ture, alone, but I did try it out for the sake of thor­ough­ness. While sign­ing in to my Microsoft account from with­in the app’s main ellipses menu was quick­er than you’d expect, there cur­rent­ly doesn’t appear to be a way to stay signed in because the app’s been kick­ing me off at seem­ing­ly ran­dom inter­vals of time with no notice or indi­ca­tion that it’s done so.

In terms of speed, I decid­ed to take advan­tage of the fastest inter­net con­nec­tion I’ve ever test­ed to screen cap­ture two brows­er com­par­i­son videos. In the first, I sim­ply nav­i­gat­ed to and ful­ly ren­dered the same sin­gle, fair­ly com­plex sam­ple web­page in each of the six avail­able browsers on iOS suc­ces­sive­ly. (I hope you enjoy the YouTube rights-free sound­track I added.) In the sec­ond, I nav­i­gat­ed to a more com­plex web­page and briefly scrolled through its ani­ma­tion with each before nav­i­gat­ing to the same front-page sto­ry on The New York Times. If any­thing, these cap­tures prove that mod­ern web browsers are sim­ply too fast for load­ing time to be a mean­ing­ful bench­mark any­more, but I should note that Edge seemed notice­ably more effi­cient than the oth­ers when I was read­ing news on a poor 3G con­nec­tion.

The ulti­mate issue with using Microsoft Edge is the same with using any brows­er aside from Safari on iOS: there’s no way to change sys­tem-wide which one click­ing a link will open. Some old Twit­ter clients will still let you spec­i­fy, but one or two sources may as well be none. If you open links from email newslet­ters as I do dozens of times a day, there’s no intu­itive way to main­tain use of any oth­er brows­er. That said, Edge’s cross-plat­form pref­er­ence sync­ing and ele­gant­ly sim­pli­fied inter­face may make it a good choice for more senior users, and its one-touch “Close All Tabs” but­ton!!! is a sim­ple delight which should be stan­dard every­where.

As it stands — unless you’re using too old of an iPhone for this com­par­i­son to be rel­e­vant any­way — you could sim­ply do what I did for this review and sim­ply keep every one of these six apps in a fold­er should any one take your par­tic­u­lar web surf­ing fan­cy. I, myself, have already returned Safari back to its old spot in the inter­est of sim­plic­i­ty.

Logitech G203


Is it everything or nothing?

This is by far the most expen­sive mouse I have ever bought at $24.99. It is also per­haps the loud­est piece of com­put­er equip­ment — periph­er­al or oth­er­wise — that I have ever encoun­tered in my entire life with the lit­er­al vol­ume of its click­ing noise, light­ing effects, and the quan­ti­ty of accom­pa­ny­ing bloat­ware. Then again, it is also my first piece of gam­ing gear — a moniker to which I am tech­ni­cal­ly new. A world in which a $50 periph­er­al is con­sid­ered “thor­ough­ly afford­able” is not mine any­more (it nev­er was, but only because of my lim­it­ed ado­les­cent income,) but that’s okay. Per­haps this pur­chase will prove to be the gate­way to my very own Sick Build. Regard­less, my adult life is still full of plen­ti­ful click­ing, and a high-qual­i­ty, “vari­able res­o­lu­tion” mouse should have some sort of place when doing my tax­es, repeat­ed­ly apply­ing for health insur­ance, read­ing dai­ly news for hours, and accu­rate­ly lik­ing Joke Tweets. And — for the sake of a more thor­ough gamer per­spec­tive — I down­loaded all 10GB of Eve Online and clicked around in space for an evening, just in case.

After fif­teen min­utes spent look­ing for the end of the G203’s 6.6-foot USB cable, I plugged it in to my Spec­tre and made the mis­take of man­u­al­ly seek­ing out its Win­dows dri­vers. I thought the 115mb instal­la­tion file was com­i­cal­ly exces­sive for a mouse, but after inad­ver­tent­ly join­ing The G Team, enhanc­ing my new Gam­ing Gear, and appeas­ing the prompt’s request for a reboot, the com­plex­i­ty of the soft­ware more than jus­ti­fied its foot­print, if not its exis­tence.

Nat­u­ral­ly, I was thrilled to opt-in to let my new mouse speak to its moth­er­ship, hop­ing that it would even­tu­al­ly men­tion my hands, which are by far my most flat­ter­ing fea­ture (also, it would be nice if it told them how awk­ward it is to use its soft­ware as long as it remains exempt from UI scal­ing.) Then, the one hun­dred and sev­enth edi­tion of my mouse’s update tool sug­gest­ed that I down­load high­er per­for­mance! (Appar­ent­ly “DPI” means “Dots Per Inch,” and I’m sure 8000 of them is an upgrade from my old roller­ball!)

By default, the huge­ly bright LEDs on the G203 cycle smooth­ly through the col­or­band, which is desir­able to some­one on Earth, I’m sure, but I do not know of them. Come to think of it — out of all of the many Gamers I’ve known and con­versed with about every top­ic imag­in­able, I’m almost pos­i­tive that their own mice — or com­put­er mice as a whole, real­ly — have nev­er come up. Even for these, life is too short to search Con­sumer Reports for com­put­er mouse reviews, but per­haps all of us are in error. I only pur­chased the G203 because all of the majesty of Columbia’s Best Buy (appar­ent­ly the hold­er of the “Worst Best Buy Store in the World” title not so long ago) was sold out of all mice with­in what I then con­sid­ered to be a rea­son­able price range, and it was the one of the remain­ing “expen­sive” but still doable options with the high­est reviews upon a briskly skimmed Google search. Now, I think I can see why. There is a cer­tain qual­i­ty in the way it feels that I’ve clear­ly been miss­ing out on amidst my as-yet-life­long habit of using the cheap­est, knock­off-brand periph­er­als.

First: that ser­rat­ed scroll wheel! Wow! Incre­ment­ed scrolling was the shit, wasn’t it? Can you actu­al­ly read while you two-fin­ger ges­ture scroll? I’m pret­ty sure I can’t, regard­less of how seam­less the expe­ri­ence may or may not be. I can nei­ther imag­ine nor hope this sort of engage­ment — with the web, any­way — will be viable for much longer, but it is a nice option. To be force­ful, notice that options being sort of a theme, here: out of a lack of cheap­er options, I spent a bit more on this, very option-sat­u­rat­ed mouse, and now I can’t move my laptop’s point­er from over six feet away — should I wish — albeit with the oblig­a­tory anx­i­ety over the destruc­tive poten­tial such a teth­er includes, left exposed to the whims of whirling pets or limbs. Of course, you are no doubt won­der­ing why a wired mouse? Isn’t that your whole orig­i­nal lim­i­ta­tion?

Like the smart-mind­ed PC gam­ing enthu­si­ast, I find the poten­tial advan­tages of blue­tooth periph­er­als to be over­shad­owed by their dis­ad­van­tages in a big way. Not so much the inevitable delay of wire­less­ness as was com­mon­ly lament­ed upon by the com­pet­i­tive elite first-per­son-shoot­ers, but the lit­tle slice of bur­den stacked on top of the pile of bat­tery-oper­at­ed devices I already own. Even sans-Tes­la, quartz or smart watch, portable gam­ing con­sole (or, con­sole of any kind with wire­less con­trollers,) tablet, wire­less head­phones, portable speak­ers, eread­er, smart glass­es, and smart jack­et, the pow­er cells in my lap­top, iPhone, and flash­light gen­er­ate plen­ty of charge anx­i­ety enough, and I’d like to hold out for as long as is rea­son­ably fea­si­ble before mul­ti­ply­ing my exist­ing duress. How­ev­er, as per my own obser­va­tions (though not mea­sur­able num­bers,) the G203 seems to be increas­ing the drain on my Spectre’s bat­ter­ies, whether by its huge, always-run­ning soft­ware pres­ence, its phys­i­cal USB draw, or both. Quan­ti­fy­ing the sub­se­quent has­sle of charg­ing my lap­top more often so that it could be mea­sured against that of charg­ing an equiv­a­lent blue­tooth mouse is nei­ther straight­for­ward nor inter­est­ing, but it’s not as if I’ll be using this machine off the charg­er for very much longer after over a year of extreme­ly heavy use.

As long as tools have exist­ed — cer­tain­ly as long as they’ve been sold — they have been divid­ed pri­mar­i­ly into two cat­e­gories: prod­ucts for ama­teurs, and prod­ucts for pro­fes­sion­als. I come from a time when “pro­fes­sion­al gamer” was an oxy­moron (unless you count stuff like snook­er, I guess,) yet now I’m using such a cus­tomiz­able mouse that its hotkeys can be mapped to hotkey map­ping and its sen­si­tiv­i­ty (the dots per inch spec) can be switched “on the fly.” How I’m going to make full use of these func­tion­al­i­ties with­in my word proces­sor has yet to be deter­mined, but when/if it is, it will be com­plete­ly imple­mentable in absolute­ly no time at all. The Log­itech G203 is nei­ther ama­teur nor pro — it is a “prodi­gy,” which from my per­spec­tive has to be an inher­ent­ly nos­tal­gic angle. Top­i­cal­ly, more than any­thing at this moment, I would like to bring the core char­ac­ters of Halt and Catch Fire to life just to show them this mouse, its soft­ware, and all that they are con­stant­ly beg­ging to do togeth­er — like “con­trol­ling [my] Dis­cord client,” what­ev­er the hell that could pos­si­bly mean.

The Log­itech G203 is offi­cial­ly “gamer gear,” but it’s impor­tant to clar­i­fy the term’s mean­ing in both hard­ware and soft­ware for an adult in 2018. And yet, at least it remains over­whelm­ing­ly clear that we will all even­tu­al­ly die.The Log­itech G203 is offi­cial­ly “gamer gear,” but it’s impor­tant to clar­i­fy the term’s mean­ing in both hard­ware and soft­ware for an adult in 2018. And yet, at least it remains over­whelm­ing­ly clear that we will all even­tu­al­ly die.The thing that got us to the thing did so a long time ago — it’s full of nazis and captcha-trained, Pres­i­den­cy-mak­ing Russ­ian robots, now, and my new com­put­er mouse is tak­ing the ini­tia­tive and han­dling all of my cor­re­spon­dence for me. Every­thing is pos­si­ble, but the end is nigh. The same prac­tices we once used in our youth to bide our time and hide from the truths of our finite exis­tence have grown to encom­pass them as well and left no suf­fi­cient dis­trac­tion with which to replace or reverse them — even obnox­ious­ly loud click­ing and bright spec­trum-cross­ing light shows. Now, we must pro­ceed whole­heart­ed­ly under the weight of the knowl­edge that we will soon reach the ulti­mate final­i­ty of the infi­nite rest, our USB mice in hand.

Mom and Dad

The Earth will reach its max­i­mum occu­pan­cy load (12 bil­lion) when I am in my mid-fifi­ties, mean­ing there’ll be more than twice as many gorg­ing, shit­ting, shoot­ing, com­plain­ing, and lying human beings than there were when I start­ed, and per­haps Bri­an Taylor’s Mom and Dad is in fact a rea­soned argu­ment for a par­tic­u­lar solu­tion to our inevitable plight. I’m still not sure what a “cult” movie is, pre­cise­ly, but I can’t imag­ine what sort of cult could pos­si­bly sus­tain itself around the ethos of this film alone, despite its con­cise, agi­tat­ing, at once light­heart­ed, yet gen­uine­ly-dis­turb­ing trip. No, it is prob­a­bly not pro­pa­gan­da. From the experts, you’ll get pre­cise­ly the same review, vary­ing only in length. The New York Times’ Glenn Ken­ny couldn’t be both­ered with more than 250 words, but RogerE­bert dot com’s Simon Abrams shelled out a whole 1000. They are sus­pi­cious­ly close to these big round num­bers — per­haps each was writ­ten to respec­tive quo­tas, and per­haps you could say all that could rea­son­ably be said in 10, but I don’t care.

The tropes here are pol­ished to a mirac­u­lous sheen — two emo­tion­al­ly-stunt­ed, mid­dleaged, over­ly pre­oc­cu­pied-with-their-lost-youth sub­ur­ban par­ents (Nico­las Cage and Sel­ma Blair) who’s exist­ing envies & irri­ta­tions regard­ing their own clas­si­cal­ly brat­ty teenage girl (Anne Win­ters) and her mis­chie­vous lit­tle broth­er (Zackary Arthur) is mere­ly agi­tat­ed by a sud­den TV sta­t­ic-bound killer instinct into blood­lust, not orig­i­nat­ed. I’m not sure any pill deal­er would actu­al­ly flip off their cus­tomers after a fair buy — even in high school, but drugs, a black boyfriend, and a stinkbomb? in the old Trans Am!? I’m going to kill you!

Some­body, some­where knew all the best sources on sub­ur­bia and how to put them to good use. The Cam­ry, the golf bag, ping pong smash­ing, sweat-stained Big Sur tee, and Dr. Oz, for Christ’s sake! Grant­ed, talk­ing to your girlfriend/boyfriend on the phone at all is a bit dat­ed — espe­cial­ly while rid­ing a BMX — and I don’t think Froot Loops are gen­er­al­ly accept­ed mid­dle-class chow any­more. These are sta­ples from my youth, and I am very old. Tech­ni­cal­ly, the iMes­sage bub­ble graph­ics are more chrono­graph­i­cal­ly appro­pri­ate, but with great con­se­quence, I fear — if we’re going to accept them once and for all as authen­tic mech­a­nisms for telling sto­ries set in the present, they are going to age faster than Nick’s new jowls (unless we’re all soon killed by our par­ents.) It’s been two years since I knew any­thing about music, but I seri­ous­ly doubt even the gothest fifteen?-year-old girls are lis­ten­ing to Father-esque post-Mem­phis hor­ror­core in class — there’s some­thing about Sound­Cloud that real­ly clash­es with chok­ers.

If there was ever a film in which to use grimy dub­step-influ­enced elec­tron­ic slaps, buzzes, chirps, and great grat­ing clank­ing, it’s this one. It’s a ter­rif­ic dis­ap­point­ment that Hol­ly­wood feels so timid­ly about their use of the most inti­mate medi­um. One for­gets its poten­tial to con­trol the nuances of an audience’s fear, anger, dis­com­fort, and pan­ic beyond cheap jump scares until they expe­ri­ence an irri­tat­ing, dis­tress­ing, ghast­ly gross, all-pos­sess­ing feat of accen­tu­at­ing audio pro­duc­tion such as that of Mom and Dad. If you want to judge Aca­d­e­m­i­cal­ly the effec­tive­ness of a nominee’s work for an award with a title like Best Sound Edit­ing (as opposed to what­ev­er the hell cri­te­ria was met most ful­ly by Sky­fall,) you must give the lit­tle gold­en man to these folks, who­ev­er they are.

When’s the last time you saw a tru­ly, believ­ably shit­ty mod­ern parental pair on a big screen? I real­ly can’t remem­ber, myself. Brent and Kendall Ryan are mas­ter­pieces of char­ac­ter craft — both a per­fect pré­cis and thor­ough­ly-defined explo­ration of mis­er­able white sub­ur­ban­ites. They’re even namedunim­prov­ably, which reflects a qual­i­ty in care and atten­tion to detail that I very much appre­ci­ate. They are vain, vul­gar, impa­tient, self­ish­ly afraid, and care­less, freely feel­ing and say­ing it all direct­ly in front of their chil­dren. I love being told explic­it­ly which char­ac­ters to hate (no joke,) and in this case it’s the whole damned lot. Bri­an Tay­lor and Nico­las Cage scream it over and over (as I’d like to imag­ine) a sin­gle after­noon of one-take film­ing, con­sid­er­ing that the lat­ter took it upon him­self to first mem­o­rize the entire screen­play and its prose, vanil­la to per­fec­tion, before pho­tog­ra­phy began, and I hope it all stays with him for­ev­er, espe­cial­ly “my mom is such a penis.”

Mom and Dad could con­ceiv­ably be Nico­las Cage’s I Am Leg­end if for no oth­er rea­son than the total lack of pos­si­ble stand-ins for Brent Ryan — even the stan­dard by which all white sub­ur­ban Dad per­for­mances have been mea­sured in the 21st cen­tu­ry, Jason Bate­man. Nick him­self described it as “punk rock, rebel­lious, irrev­er­ent, orig­i­nal, badass,” and the “num­ber one” movie he’s made in the past ten years (dis­qual­i­fy­ing Nation­al Trea­sure, in case you were wor­ried.) No sur­prise, I must agree — this one is a won­der­ful­ly rau­cous and fer­al thing, but the scene involv­ing the attempt­ed mur­der of a new­born by her moth­er (Kendall’s sis­ter) came very close to cross­ing the line. How­ev­er, I am old and the inten­si­ty of my pater­nal instincts has prob­a­bly out­paced my under­stand­ing of them. You could also argue, of course, that push­ing such bound­aries is a core func­tion of a film like Mom and Dad. Nobody end­ed up vom­it­ing or any­thing.

This fun thing shouldn’t feel as for­eign as it does in cin­e­ma, but you already knew that. With all its implic­it grap­ples with over­pop­u­la­tion, kids and gun vio­lence, class, and racism — tru­ly, this is a film charged elec­tri­cal­ly with cur­rent issues. Or maybe not. Ulti­mate­ly, I can at least tell you for cer­tain that Bri­an Tay­lor made expo­nen­tial­ly bet­ter use of his resources (I couldn’t find a sol­id num­ber for its pro­duc­tion bud­get) than the Fuck­ing Spierig Broth­ers did with Win­ches­ter (just so you know what a dis­as­ter looks like,) and man­aged to be refresh­ing­ly orig­i­nal (aston­ish­ing that nobody’s had this spe­cif­ic idea before.) A spec­tac­u­lar riot, Mom and Dad does all you could pos­si­bly want it to do. With just eighty-three min­utes to lose, it’s worth the com­mit­ment just to hear Nico­las Cage whim­per and say “anal beads.”

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.