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.
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.
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.”
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 .
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.