I started a piece about corporate art and consumerism as an end to itself, but I don't feel like finishing it right now, so instead enjoy this bit about an amusement ride I wrote back in December.

A few years ago now (oof, stings to realize that) I got into Defunctland, a YouTube documentary series that focuses specifically on now-closed theme park rides and attractions. It’s a delight in a variety of ways, and the production value has massively increased year over year. But the hook for me was its piece regarding the “ExtraTERRORestrial Alien Encounter,” a short-lived theater ride that was unbelievably scary when I visited Disneyworld in early 2000. It got me thinking about the trip, as well as other trips to amusement parks I’d made.

I went to Disneyland and Knotts Berry Farm for the first time at the age of 7, a trip planned and paid for by my paternal grandparents. And by my tween and teen years, my family had moved from lower-middle to solidly middle (or perhaps just the cusp of upper-middle) class, enabling us to make a number of holiday trips to theme parks. There were a few reasons for this, not the least of which was an excuse to leave Fairbanks, Alaska in the deepest part of winter. Furthermore, my dad is very partial to roller coasters, a fondness I hope to explore with him in the next few years (as he did with his dad). Meanwhile, between our family trips to Disney, Universal Studios, and other parks, I grew to be a connoisseur of motion simulator rides.

Star Tours was the standard, of course, an immediate favorite after it so astonished both my then-4 year old brother and myself that we “wanted to go home,” before immediately getting in line for a second trip. I recall Back to the Future: The Ride being a delight, and it even starred a pair of actors from the movies in both the pre-ride movie and the ride proper. And the Star Trek Experience was magnificent for a laundry list of reasons, which I will probably elaborate on at another time.

By age 19, having sampled these and other experiences based on hydraulically-assisted short films, I figured I had seen everything the genre had to offer. But in Chicago, Illinois, as our family wandered Navy Pier, I was presented with something entirely new; a relatively barren kiosk, with flashing electronic lights. “Satisfaction” by Benny Benassi (warning: semi-risque college dirtbag video) blared. And overhead, a lit sign made an incomprehensible offer.

“3D Ride”

This title is virtually sphinx-like, a call to action so bizarre yet compelling that today I remember it with great relish. But at the time, despite being a legal adult, I was still firmly a teenager and my natural reaction was to roll my eyes dismissively. Dad’s sense of ironic humor, meanwhile, immediately kicked in.

“Oh, we have to do this.”

It’s not like I wasn’t reacting to obvious red flags. The first, and arguably biggest, was the “post”-ride photo. These typically capture a moment of excitement from a ride — think tilting over the edge of the final slide on Splash Mountain — and are sold to riders afterward as a memoir of their experience. 3D Ride, by contrast, opted to take these photos immediately after ticket purchase, before riders had even boarded. In retrospect, I think it was this wrinkle that probably caught dad’s attention at the start, but in any case, we bought our tickets, got our photo taken, and joined a waiting group.

We encountered our next red flag in the ride briefing. Like all motion simulators, 3D Ride had to establish the basic rules for the experience — keep your 3D glasses on, don’t wave your arms around, et cetera et cetera. It had an animatronic robot tasked with the purpose, but as its pre-recorded dialogue began playing, the mascot remained stationary, slumped over in a position suggesting strangulation as it began flashing its lights and letting us know how to stay safe while aboard.

The meat of 3D Ride (which a bit of googling has revealed to be titled, in full, “Time Escape Navy Pier”) was a three-screen 3D theater experience. These screens weren’t exactly in proper operation during our visit, though. The center screen was operating properly, so at least we could get a clear idea of what was going on. The left, meanwhile, was only working with one of its two projectors, rendering the screen very pointedly 2D rather than 3D. Meanwhile, the screen on the right was badly out of focus, rendering it illegible (and, I found, an easy source of nausea despite the very stationary theater). The resulting trip through Chicago’s history was, as you might imagine, distractingly flawed, while its final “escape” portion — the only part, I’ll note, to feature any motion — was cartoonishly brief.

It’s easy to imagine that, as a kid of the right age, 3D Ride might have been tremendously disappointing. But Dad’s sense was 100% spot-on — with me being age 19, my brother age 16, and, I suspect, both parents needing a moment of levity, stopping to visit Navy Pier’s premiere motion simulation experience was perfect. Previous, higher-quality rides were more fun, of course, but that spur-of-the-moment ticket was funny, a shared experience that gave us something to laugh at. It also helped us establish a shared sense of humor, ground rules that let us laugh together at the silly, absurd, and especially the ridiculous.

Most of the motion simulator rides I experienced throughout my youth are quite defunct today (aside from Star Tours, though it’s been so altered as to be unrecognizable). I lament the loss of all of them to some extent or another (particularly the Star Trek Experience, which again, I will elaborate on another time). But if nothing else, 3D Ride helped set the stage for my present relationship with my folks, a positive one full of levity, and for that I think I respect it more than any of its contemporaries.

An internal document pertaining to LAN game viability, because at this point I realize that this is the person I am fundamentally and that is unlikely to ever change.

Welcome to the MEANS System!

The MEANS System is a method of identifying attributes and rating games based on their viability and enjoyability at LAN parties. MEANS testing is not intended to deeply assess or pass judgment on the overall quality, artistic merit, or other critically relevant attributes that may otherwise be relevant for game reviews. Rather, it simply asks: “Is this game a good time?”

Though this is an effort to be systematic (and, in some cases, taxonomic), MEANS is intrinsically subjective. While individual reviewers should seek to be as objective as they can, they will nevertheless refer to their own memories and experiences in using the system for their review. This is by design, and multiple MEANS tests of a given game from different perspectives are valuable and encouraged, as it increases the average usefulness of the resulting score.

Assessment

The system assesses five specific elements of a given game: Moments, Energy, Accessibility, Novelty, and Simplicity (hence, MEANS), with a rating chosen on a 1-10 scale. The elements are defined as follows. 

Moments

How many times a game elicits reactions from the players. The number of times one curses, jokingly, a fellow LAN attendee. The frequency of cheers or jeers. Opportunities for team collaboration and communication. How much players want to discuss the events of the game at its conclusion.

Energy

The amount of laughter the game generates. The level of liveliness resulting from a game being played. The overall excitement and intensity level of players. The observable amount of fun everyone seems to be having. (related to Moments tangentially)

Accessibility 

The speed at which players can, from a full stop, set up and join a lobby or game-in-progress. Network stability, lack of bugs and frustration not resulting from the game itself.

Novelty

The game's ability to provide unique experiences. The ease with which players can create new criteria, variations, and methods of play. Replayability, customizability, and diversity of play modes.

Simplicity

The speed at which new players can, with limited prior knowledge of the game, grasp the fundamentals and start having a good time. Game and systems complexity, frustration resulting directly from the game itself.

Type

Type describes the role the game plays in LAN rotation. In short, it attempts to describe the overall vibe of the game session, and when it may be played over the course of an event.

Arena

Intense, competitive games. A relatively level playing field for players to test their skill against other groups at the LAN, or against players online.

Big Team

Games that can fit everyone. Frenetic, generally team-based, with the ability to drop in or out at will.

Casual

Chill games for chill times. Low-to-no skill barrier, typically lower energy than the related “Party” category.

Chaos

Absolute mayhem. Usually free-for-all settings with a difficult win condition, best played in short sessions to boost group energy.

Co-op

Small-group games played against AI or (in the case of Battle Royale) exclusively against online players. High-communication, moderately less competitive edge versus Arena.

Party

High-energy games with clear, low-to-no skill barrier mechanics. 

Format

Format describes the method by which a game is played -- specifically the input and view style. This has been condensed to genre descriptions used in contemporary game media and marketing.

Unreal Tournament 2004

Type: Chaos, Arena

Format: FPS

While many LAN groups of the era coalesced around Quake rather than UT99, Unreal Tournament 2004 was an inescapable juggernaut of the arena shooter genre, and battled with the likes of Call of Duty and Battlefield 1942. Today, UT2004 has aged relatively well compared to many of its contemporaries, and sees limited play at CELAN events.

Moments: 7

Energy: 7.5

As with most arena shooters, UT2004 play is lively and naturally encourages yells of excitement, delight, and general chaos, though it can be frustrating for less experienced players. Team-based modes, either standard deathmatch and CTF or more intricate modes such as Onslaught and Assault, encourage collaboration and can be played versus other players or against AI.

Accessibility: 7

UT2004’s GOG installer and few networking hassles make it easy for most attendees to install and play with a minimum of technical headache (getting the game to run at a contemporary resolution being among the minor frustrations).

Novelty: 5

Better than the average arena shooter thanks to the inclusion of diverse game modes. However, it’s still an arena shooter -- for those not deeply invested in the genre, UT2004 will wear thin fairly quickly.

Simplicity: 5.5

As FPSes go, UT2004 dates to an era of less complex systems and high skill ceilings. As a result, there’s less to learn than other FPSes, elevating its simplicity somewhat -- though habitual reloaders may find themselves typing gibberish in team chat.

Warcraft III

Type: Arena, Party

Format: RTS

Easily one of the GOAT games in CELAN circles, but more due to its map editor flexibility than its core RTS gameplay. Warcraft III is best in its un-Reforged form, and copy-and-play copies are still widely available to scratch itches that StarCraft II can’t quite reach.

Moments: 6

Energy: 4

Few emotions quite match the terrorized panic of a group of tower defense players realizing, in sequence, that their defenses are failing. However, being an RTS, overall Warcraft III energy is low, and players generally remain locked into a lobby for 15 minutes or more at a time.

Accessibility: 6

As long as everyone is on the same copy-and-play version, WC3 is fairly harmless. However, version disparities can cause headaches, the resolutions aren’t up to snuff for modern devices, and the Battle.net version is incompatible with the OG version.

Novelty: 8

One of the undisputed kings of novelty. WC3 maps transform the game into the relatively benign (tower defense, hero siege, footman wars, MOBA, etc) or the exotic (a kart racer, a Mario Party analogue, a survival RPG), and more. 

Simplicity: 4

Being an RTS from 2003, WC3’s controls aren’t the simplest to grasp, and for those not already steeped in it, it can be daunting to pick up for the first time.

Battlefield 4

Type: Big Team

Format: FPS

Widely panned for a sloppy release, over time BF4 became a staple LAN FPS in some circles through the 2010s. Its near-future military aesthetic is an acquired taste at best, but its capacity for shenanigans and silliness is almost unmatched in the genre.

Moments: 8

Energy: 7

In a vacuum, having everyone join a server and randomly populating opposing teams leads to a constant stream of laughs and jeers. With more coordinated play, deliberately setting up squads and specializing to shut down opposing vehicles, crew aircraft, and more can lead to dynamic and exciting moments for the team.

Accessibility: 5

At its most accessible, BF4 is… fine. In the past, it required slogging through the Battlelog web interface, which was bad but useable. Today, it has a menu system that is resource-heavy and unintuitive. Also, Origin sucks, but at least works consistently. Picking servers is only a minor hassle, and getting into games is doable, if not the easiest.

Novelty: 6

While playing mostly on a single mode (‘Conquest’ / the ‘Conquest Large’ variant) might seem inherently limiting, the maps and scenarios are so large that a degree of flexibility is inherent. Go anti-vehicle, go anti-infantry, fly a helicopter, fly a jet, drive a tank, ram explosives-laden jeeps into enemy tanks, stab snipers, launch bomb-defusing robots toward the enemy spawn -- for an apparently realistic military-themed FPS, there’s a lot of silliness to be had.

Simplicity: 4.5

As with many shooters of the mid-2010s, BF4 is replete with numerous skins, weapons, attachments, and gadgets. In a vacuum, it’s a bit much to take in -- with at least a couple friendly teammates at a LAN, it’s not insurmountable. 

League of Legends

Type: Arena

Format: RTS

The undisputed king of MOBAs; though many have taken their shot at the throne, nothing in the genre quite has the longevity, technical prowess, or fanbase of League of Legends. While this analyst has long blamed LoL for the implosion of the BYOC LAN party at PAX, he’s attempted to set aside his feelings for the purposes of this analysis.

Moments: 7

Energy: 5.5

While there are few experiences in gaming that feel worse than losing a round of LoL, there are few that feel better than winning. Collaboration is a must, and wins are truly sublime. However, interplay between groups is impossible, and players are sequestered for the length of their play session.

Accessibility: 7.5

Free to play, runs on damn near everything. The only strikes against LoL are its always-online nature, and its lack of drop-in/drop-out play options.

Novelty: 2

One mode, two tops. LoL’s distinct roles allow for somewhat diverse playstyles, and private lobbies are an option, but its lack of custom gametypes and modes stifle LAN flexibility. 

Simplicity: 1

League’s learning ‘curve’ is more of a brick wall covered in spikes. Complex and with a high skill ceiling, LoL punishes new players -- and often, judging from the exasperated sounds made by teams at LANs, experienced players too. Approach with caution.

Battlefield 2042

Type: Big Team

Format: FPS

While plainly cut from the same cloth as BF4 (and sharing a similarly sloppy launch), Battlefield 2042 is most glaringly plagued by a number of underbaked features -- most notably broken server browsing / setup, and an inability to join 128 player servers with more than 4-player groups. The potential is there, but it’ll only become a LAN staple if those issues are addressed.

Moments: 7.5

Energy: 7

Parts of BF4’s success are readily visible in BF2042. Action is fast, fluid, chaotic, and invites a variety of playstyles and general silliness. Vehicles are tougher nuts to crack in 2042, which is somewhat stifling, but the biggest issue is not being able to play with (or against) fellow LAN attendees as readily. Update (2022/4): It’s easier to play on LAN, score adjusted slightly.

Accessibility: 3

BF2042 requires either a $60 purchase or a $10/mo subscription, redlines even the latest and greatest hardware, and is prone to broken installations and bugs that test even the most devoted fan. In around a year it’ll probably be great, but right now it’s very rough.

Update (2022/4): A few rounds of patches have drastically improved the ability to join friends in play. It’s still not quite to BF4 levels, but it’s better than it was.

Novelty: 2

Without a working server browser or an easy way to launch custom Portal modes with friends, BF2042 is limited to its competent All-Out Warfare modes (Conquest and “Definitely Not Rush”), and a confusing co-op Escape From Tarkov-like that may or may not be any good.

Simplicity: 4

Similar to BF4, though with a more limited armory and changes that have added more of a learning curve. Character-specific abilities take some getting used to (though team identification isn’t too bad), and the “plus menu” means of handling weapon attachments can be confusing for new players.

Worms: Armageddon

Type: Party, Chaos

Format: Artillery-like

An OG LAN staple from the heady days of 1998, Worms: Armageddon dates to the earliest sparks which eventually led to CELAN’s founding. Though it iterates on some truly archaic games (Scorched Earth and GORILLA.BAS among others), its cartoonish style and goofy elevate it above its predecessors. There have been many Worms games since Armageddon, however none quite reach its lofty highs. Armageddon still receives updates today (somehow), and as a result is the version played contemporarily.

Moments: 7

Energy: 4.5

The madcap action of WA is akin to playing an episode of the Animaniacs. Skillshots, ludicrously overkill weapons, inexplicable movement, emergent rivalries, and pixel-blaming all abound. However, its turn-based playstyle and locked lobbies do limit energy somewhat, not unlike RTS or MOBA games.

Accessibility: 5.5

In its GOG (and possibly Steam) forms, WA runs at native resolution on modern systems and uses modern networking standards, meaning technical hiccups are uncommon. However its base menu system still runs at low resolution, and UI interaction is stuck firmly in the 90s, meaning new players may require assistance to get in a game.

Novelty: 6

From team customization to game rules, WA offers a delightful degree of flexibility in play. Weapon selection, item drop rate, turn length, team size, player health, gravity, movement speed, and more can all be adjusted prior to game start. However, the result is always Worms -- don’t expect anything too transformative.

Simplicity: 3.5

On its face, it should be simple enough -- move two directions, aim in a circle, shoot at baddies. In practice, WA struggles with its 90s legacy, and its relatively archaic control scheme can be extremely frustrating to new players. A couple rounds of the single-player tutorial are recommended for people who haven’t been playing for most of their lives to date.

They say that you cycle through all the molecules in your body every seven years, but if that's true, how come I'm still making the same mistakes as ~18 years ago?

It’s been a minute since I posted here. Lot of distraction around the holidays, that’s most of it. Things are… bad right now, circumstances that I pretty much created solo, so that’s not helping. But I’m trying to make it better. Part of that will be writing more frequently, if I’m able.

So, let’s dig into something.

Like many, I’ve been unable to escape references to NFTs basically fucking everywhere in day-to-day life since around last April. While it’s an easy trend to dunk on — and so, so many people do frequently — lately I’ve been pondering why specifically the concept bothers me as much as it does. What I’ve come up with is that the concept of a non-permeable digital good is fundamentally opposed to my views on data and information.

My Dad’s career is formative to a lot of those views. (He recently turned 70, by the by, so in the event he reads this; Hey Dad! Hanging out on your birthday was a great time, weird though it is to hang out on the phone 1500 miles removed from someone drinking the same whiskey.) His extensive and varied work history aside, by the time I was a kid, my dad had settled in at the helm of a long-neglected film archive at his hometown university. I don’t use the term “neglected” lightly; when he started at the “archive” it was a big windowless room full of largely unmarked and un-viewed reels and videotapes, rotting steadily away. Now, it’s a comprehensive collection of Alaskan moving pictures (that posts some pretty cool stuff on YouTube, so, check that out if you get a chance).

That took a lot of hard work and dedication, of course, but it also took a particular philosophy. Dad started looking through those piles of unknown footage and decided “people need to be able to see this.” He spent about twenty years working to that end, fighting both a terminal lack of funding (not unusual there) and an ingrained institutional tendency to gatekeep, rather than open, access to knowledge.

Many if not most of my personal views and philosophies are derived from my folks — mangled, poorly considered, and failed in execution though they might be. Dad’s work at the archive, then, informed my view of data: why withhold it, when you can make it available to everyone? I’ll certainly cop to acquiring more than my share of less-than-legitimately-sourced media, a practice dating back nearly (if not exactly) twenty years of my own at this point. A lot of that is pedestrian petty theft — primarily popular films and TV shows. 

But the stuff that I pride myself on, the stuff that I really put an effort into, are the rarities. Shows that aired for less than a season. Music that’s hard if not impossible to obtain across international borders. Movies obscure verging on unknown. Want to watch a sci-fi hospital drama that aired for three episodes on UPN in 1998? How about a Philippine action flick from 1985? Trying to play a data-breach derived version of the Half-Life 2 beta from 2003? Perhaps you’re after a cassette-only album of your favorite post-punk revival outfit prior to their better-known name change? The more ghostly an item is, the more keen I am to get a copy of it, to hold on to it as best as I’m able. And why? Specifically so I can share it, so I can tell people “hey, check this thing out” and show them something weird, unexpected, and new. To be clear, most of this stuff exists in some form or another, and outfits like the Internet Archive do a far better job than I. But nevertheless, it’s my impulse, my philosophical root when it comes to data — get it, keep it, and most importantly, share it.

NFTs, then, are the precise opposite of this. They represent a seismic shift in the thinking of tech people, a transition from “data wants to be free” to a twenty dollar cover and a two drink minimum. It wasn’t enough that the Internet created more wealth and commerce than possibly imaginable thirty years ago. It wasn’t enough that DRM-laden platforms are now the de-facto standard, and most people pay the equivalent of a cable subscription to enjoy… well, the equivalent of a cable subscription. No, no, that was all too lenient. Best to sell jpegs that a younger, more self-serious version of myself wouldn’t consider for a livejournal icon (even as a joke!) to the vapid rich. After all, it’s harder than ever to source a Lamborghini — why not get the status symbol without the hassle of licensing, insurance, storage and the like? 

(The especially tinfoil-hatted part of me even suspects that this is a pilot program, priming people for the idea that they should shift their purchasing habits to the digital as material items become harder to source. But that’s a darkened road to go down some other time.)

Don’t get me wrong, the core idea of crypto makes sense to me; the notion of a digital store of value / record of ownership outside of the control of the state is a verifiably good thing. However, every implementation of it to date is a clusterfuck, and NFTs especially are the griftiest fish in a cash grab-filled sea. It’s unfortunate that’s the direction Silicon Valley has taken as a whole, playing for cash rather than actually trying to impact the world for the better. Maybe things will change down the line. In the interim, well, tell your folks and friends so they don’t get swindled over the shittiest picture of a monkey you’ve ever seen in your life.

Timewarn 2

FDA: Infected Plastic Still “On Shelves"

Laundry soaps and detergents spill from ISI infected containers at Seaway Market, Toledo, on 20 June 2040.

27 June 2040

TOLEDO, OH

More consumer products infected with ISI bacteria “may still be on store shelves” in Toledo, according to a warning issued Tuesday. But Federal officials have still been unable to determine the source of the outbreak.

The warning, issued by the Food and Drug Administration's northern Ohio office, with support from the Consumer Product Safety Commission and the Centers for Disease Control, states that consumers in the Toledo area should "refrain from purchasing products made with polyethylene terephthalate (PET) or its low and high density varieties (LDPE and HDPE) until further notice."

The two affected plastics are used as packaging or in a wide variety of products, including (but not limited to) food, soft drinks, alcohols, clear and enhanced waters, resealable bags, cooking oils, smart electronics, and some items of clothing.

The warning notes that frozen foods are unaffected, as ISI cannot survive in temperatures of 29° Farenheit or below. Products made with polyvinyl chloride (PVC) are also exempt from the warning.

ISI, short for Ideonella sakaiensis inexplebilis, is a mutation of a plastic-eating bacteria commonly used by industrial composting facilities. Since its 2038 emergence in south Florida, outbreaks of the bacteria have damaged plastic-based materials across much of the eastern United States, as well as the European Union. Plastics originating from effected regions are banned in Canada and the Western Pact, while all US and EU plastic exports have been outlawed in China, Korea, and Japan.

Some locals sa̵͎̬̿̈́͂y̶̩̞̓ ̴͈̃͋̽t̴̖͋̏͠ḩ̸̝͇͘͘e̸̛͇ ̸͔̲͑̋̓w̷͇̽͠á̵̼r̴̘̥̩̈́͝n̷̗̲̖̂į̶͕̓ͅn̷̛̼͔g̸̜̟̭̎͑̓ ̵̼̹͇̾i̶͎̠̐͝s̸͇̚ ̴̺̦̈́̔t̷̡̂̒o̴̳̖̐̾ö̴͍̖̻͝ ̷̡͚͖̎͗̑l̴̢̔̇̒a̶̛̤̎ẗ̶͎́e̸̥̜͠ ̴̪͖̩̈̊̄ť̷̜̻̈͂ō̷̝̜̣͘̚ ̸̱͐m̶̥̾̀a̵̭͑̑͆ǩ̴̨̤ͅe̴̝̓͌ ̵̪͓̚ͅa̸̒ͅn̶̫̱̄y̴͇̋̈́͠ ̷̟̙̽͗͝d̶̛̖̭͌̚ͅi̶͖̔͂͘f̷͙̳̀͋̓f̷̣͌ê̵̛̲̝̜͝r̸͍͐͐͘e̵̫̊ň̷͚̼c̶̮̏ȩ̶̧̧̛̘̝͔͇̪̩̥̀̎̀͂͆̊̕͜.̸̢̨̗̻̭̲̦̼̱̞̠̦͙͐̀͒͑̐́̅̈́͋̂́͜ ̷̳͓̬̘̓̆̕S̵̢̲̩̹̳̝̯̮̖̠̮̠͠i̷̛̠̯̩̅̄͗́̏̄̑̌̚̚͝ņ̴͔̑̔ć̵̡̨̧͈̮̯̳͚͚̭̥̍̊̆̎̀̍̽́̒̐̐̕͜͠e̵̛̛̜̲͇͍͕̒̂̋̿͛̋̈́̐̓̚͜ ̵̦̠̪͖̜̯̯̞̻̖̓̅̔͗͌̀́̌̈̊͝ͅt̴̢͖̮̻̫͚̘̘̯̣̪̺͉̥̍͂̽͒͝h̴̟͕̲̺͉̮̭̥͖̤̫̿̅̽̒̍̓̆̇̈̕ę̷̧̻̥̝̪̟̦͕̋̿̊̾̓̉̍̊͑̀̀͐͠ͅ ̵̡̝̰̯̣̟̦͚̯̥̲̇i̶̧͎̹͍̪͐̃n̵̖̰̖͕̊͂͒̆̀͋͛̑̈͐͋ì̶̪̱͇͉̬̯̀̎̌̒̉͒̔́͝͝t̷̛̠̳̙͑̊̓͑i̷̮̠̜̖̠̳̍͊̏a̸͚̾̿l̵̡̛̛͚̘͔͎͙̪̬̗̥̥̣͒̑͋͑̊̐͝͝͝ ̴̧̠̼͚̗͎̹͊̓̋̚ǫ̸̠̗̘̟͒̽̈́͂͑͘͜û̸̡̺̣̩̺̭̠͓̪̮̖̣̀̂̌͗̂̃̿̋̌t̷̡̧̘̮̭̙̽͆͌̊̓͌̀͋̈́͆̃̅͗͝b̷͎̼͔̥̣̜̐͛̊ṛ̵̨̡͉͔͇͇̘̣̝̬̫̻̈̅͑́͊̄͋͝e̸̥͍͚̻̰̩̒͠á̸͇͇͈͗̍͆̓͆͗̎̔́k̸̡̜̬̙̙̱̪̯̑̄̓͊͌͒͆̉͘͘͜͝͝͝ ̷̧̟̥̞̝̮̫͕̖̅͆̈͋i̴̛͍ń̶̛͕͕̋̎ͅ ̴̡̛̻͈̞͚̹̬̿͂̀͗̽̍́̚̕͜͝͠͠m̶̹͒̔ĩ̸̢̲̘̮̲̖͓̉̒͌͆̍͗́̄̚͝͝ḑ̴̢̧̛̛̙̫͔̳̣̱̱̩̦̪̍̂̓̀̚-̶̖̤̘̲̤͙͍̭͓̗̔̑̈́̈̀̂̇͘J̴̳̹̜̝͓͕̟̑̈͊͘͜͠ư̸̢̧̬̮̝̜̱̬̬͍̮͓̮͋̃͂͌͊̄͐͐̕̕͠ͅn̶͎̟̰̭̝͔̭̅̽͌̇̐́̃̂̆̉̏̀͌͛͜e̴͎̩̼̣̟̒͊͊̓̊̇͜,̶̢̞͍͚͍̥͈͖͈̜͚̭͉̋̅̽̔̚̕ ̶̢̡̡̞̥̳̱̣̯͉̗̆̌̀̀̈́̀͂̎͝ǫ̷͕̣̟̻̜͓͎̗͖̘̝̤̅͋͌͂͝ͅv̸̢̢͕̜͈̹̹̦͔͇̻̩͐̉̊̐̋̀̀̉̿̂͌͒̀̌͗̏̋̃̊̏͂̃̍͛̈́̐͘͘̕͝͠e̶̫̗̬̥͓̯̦͇̦̳̣͚̗̺̞͚̟̭͈̖̣̦̦̻̮̪̱͎͍͉͌̆̐͘͠ͅr̴̡̯̻̗̞̗͓̙̼̱͚̺͚̠̥̭͓̯͍̞͍̼̱̦͉̤͖͓̂͛̿͋͊́͐̀͋̈́͂͌̆̃̈̈́̔̓̿̋͒͊͛̚̚͘ͅ ̵̡̢̨̛̛̣̬̰̳̳̜̙̳̮͎̻͖͉̜̺͍̺͔̠̪̟͚͍̹̎̽͋͂̑̾̔̓̀̈́̌̄̎̎̓̎̀̀̉͐̓̃̅͛͜͠͝h̷̞͉͓̬̞͚̼̼̦̜͙̙̲͕͈͉͓̪̻̖̬̯̺̜̱͛̇̄͛̌͂̈́̈́́̕a̵̧̧̨̧̢̪͉͈͕̩̲͓̣̺̫̩̭̹̻̭͕̺̩͕̯̝̬̓̒̀̑͆̉͌́̓̐̚͜͝l̴̨͍̳̬̤̼͈̰̼̺̘̜̝̭̬̻̮̫̱͈̳͊̿͋̈́̇̊̎̔̈̕͘͜͜f̵̢̗͐͌̂͌̌̀̍͂̅͂̔̾̓͂̊̄͊̍́͋̕͜͝͝͝ ̴̢͚̦̞̣̬̰̯͖͔̣͖̦̙̪̗̳͖͔͉̲̥̜̝͍̱̘̦̘͇̏̾͋́̊͌̏̌̈͆̕͜͠͝͝ͅͅò̷̢̱̂͂ͅf̸̢̧̨̨̨̙̞̰̪̥̮̣͕̯̯̝͔̺̜͔͕̜̮̰͍̜̓̄̆̈́̔͊̋̍̈́̆͊͋̋͘͝ ̴̨̨̡̧͕̼̤͈̰̰̼̬̞̜̠̪͇͙̺͙̲̳̹̙̳̔͐̎̎̄̆̔͊͗̄̿̈̀̇̚͘̕̕l̷̨̨̨̧̠̲͚̭̱͖̭̟̰͇̼̗̣̙̭̘͈̫̲̘̘͉͈̗̫͆̐̔̏̔̒̈̊͑̍̀̉̋̒͝ȏ̷̧̨̤̙̮̖̱̺͉̣̠̲̯̭̯͓̦͐̋̇̽͗̀͒͒̾̚̚͝͝͠ͅͅç̵̧̛̹̘̦͉̭̭͈͖͎͓̙̺̖̮̝̞̭̀͐́̈́̔̄͗͌̾͑́̏͌͋̄̓̈́͆̇̍͆̏̎̆́̎̍̿̕͝͠͠ă̷̡͚͉̰͈̯̼̹̪̹̲̬͍̜͈͚̖͔̂̄̂́̄̈́̽͒͑̔̊͋̾͒̈́̿͊̽̔́͘̕͘̚̕͜͠͝͝l̶̡̡̨͙͇̝͚̘̝̦͔͇͙͔͔͇̙̞̰̺̤̳̫͓͔̙̿̎̉̉̈̈̐̒͂̀͠͝ ̷̧̛͓͐̔͂͌̆̎̾̈́̔̇̇̿̑͗̃̿̄̂̉̏̿͐̑̐̚͘͝͝͝͠ḡ̴̨̧͔͎̖̗̥̺̝̖̻̣͚̉̂́r̷͉̦̦͓̱͕̼̬͓͎̥͌́̉̌̚͘͜͠o̵̦͚͇̟̫̤̦̥̤̼̥̦̮͕͇̳͕̲͎͖̞̹̮͈̫̟͕͂͑̅̕͜c̶̛̯̬͖̯̍͑̈̽̆̆̐̃͆͗́́̃͗̔͘͜͠͝e̵̢̨̨̧̢̛̹̘͍͇͍̘͉̰̲̮̻̺̤̤͓͉̝̐̓̔͑̐̇́̾̓̆̊̀̓̊̾̐̓̍̒̏͛̍̚̚͜ŗ̶̛̫̼̬̜̀̾͊͋̑̋͌̓̔̅͆̔̿̀̂̀̀̀̀̃̽̆̒̇̈́͗̕͘͘͝͝ͅy̶̨̡̨̨̡͍̟̮̰̬̭̯͎̤͔̣̥̤̰̳̹̪͇̩̲͖̅̎͆̽̓͑̏͋̍̐̇͒̋̂̑̔́̓̋̀͋̐̄̚̕͠͝͠͝ ̸̨̨̧̹̻̰̩̖͎͓̭̣͈̪̝͕̘̗̭͈͖̹̝̹̲̙͚́̈́̊̈́̉̔͊̓̃͑̄̍͑͐̾͐̋̊̏̒̉̀͊̽̈́͛́̃͜͠͠͝͠ͅs̶̨̯̗̝̺̩͓̼̻̬̻̫̥̯͔̐́̿̿̂̄̃̾͘ͅţ̵͎͚̻̘͈͖̼͚̉̀̾̉̆̓̏̓͂͒͗̍͝o̸͔͇̥̳̟̞̞̮̬͖͉̣̫̺͉͖͈͉̗͙̜̮̤̖̙͊̍̄r̵͍̪̬̒̏̿͌́̏̇̇̊́́̏ͅȩ̸̨̨̧̡͓͍̤̪̭͕̙͔̺͕͔̮͉̻̺͉̫̪̖̲̣̳̒́͜͝͠ͅs̷̱͓̣̣͓͍͔͓͍͖͍̯͊̃̆͘ ̴̛͚̙͙̤̺̩̱̹̗̺̺̺͖̮͎͕̔̈́̐̉̆̈́̈͋̾̾̓̇̌́͘ḩ̴̡̛̹̹̥̤͈͔̹͈̟̈̽̿͒̓̆͐͐̓̀͋͊̈́͋̇͝͝͠á̸̡̩̪͇̗̻̲̦͎̾͂͛͋̅̏̐̽̾̾̋̓̕͜͝v̴̛̩̗͚͎̫̹̠̭̤̐͊͛̈͛̇̿̓̈́̿͘ë̴̢̨̡͖̹̭̯̬͎͚̲̠͓́͆̃͝͝ͅ ̷̛͓̩͈̝̖̳̺̣̗̬͔͎̩̣͈̱̲̩͌̆͛̍̾͑͛̒̅́̓̒͊̈͋̀́̐̋̋̍̔́̋̈́͑̕͠͝b̴̢͉͈̗̫͂̑̐͘ȅ̸̡̗̦̫̻̲̟̯͍̪͊̿̈̈́̀̑̍̄́̄͐̿̌͋́̓̀̈̈́́̍́̌̋̓͐͘͘̚͜͜͝e̵̛̛̤̳̝̦̗̥̻̫̎̉̀̒̾̇̃͐̏̓̽̇̾͋̑̓̇̓́̌̚͘̚̚̚͜͝͝n̴̨̼̣̰̻̭̺͈̰͎̠̺̱̹̣̬̲͌͂̍͛̀̅̑̈́͆̂̕̕͜͝ f̶̡͕͎͔͖̻̪͍͙̣͆͂̀͊̽̂͛̅̍̀̒͆͂̆̓͑̉̇̐̒͊̈́̀̑̏̈́̂̇̏̌̆̀͒̕̕̚͝͝͝͝ͅỡ̴̧̧̡̡̡̧̨̟͉̜̪̞̺̝̺̜͙̮̖̳̱͖͕̟̳͊̽̇̏̀̿̎̄̾͐̃̇̆̽̾͂́͂̆̓̒͆̈́͒́́̆͂̌̀̓̉̍̀̄̄̔̄̅͒͘͜͜͜͜͝͝r̵̢̨̧̛̛̻̩͇͕̟͍̦̪̻͉̣̗̗̪̩͉̗̩̝̜͔̠͕̜͓̝̳͐͛́̾̾͑̎̈́̅͐̄̽͐͌͒̇͌̈̈́̍͛͋̎̕͘͜͝c̴̨̠̣͉̳̬̱̩͎̥̺̦͚̹̲̆͜ͅͅȩ̶̡̧̡͓̘̼̮̥͚̠̤̺̦͉͚͍̹̼̬̦̥̖̜̦͓͉͚̼͉̯͉̩̘͇̩̪͙̙̥͖͈͔̓̒͐̿̀̄̌̓̅̊̈͜͜͜d̷̝̤̳̓̈́̂̍̑̾̊̀̆̎̀̀̀̿̾̐̃̐̌̅̕͘̚̚͝͠͝ ̵̨̬͚̗͚̲̝̏̋̃̀͊̈́̅̂͑̓͛̆̒̀̎̀ť̵̢̨͖̼̞̼̹͓͓͉̮̟̥̯̳̲͖̭̺̙̠̣̱̻̮͇̳͉̪̘͎̙̻͖̳͕̮̻̤͈͕͕̀̂̓̐̂̿̈͌̈́̀̔͛̓́͊̒͒̐̿̂͌̀͐́̒̔̈́͐̌̓͊̎́̑͊̎̀͗̒͆̈͛͘͝͝͝͝ͅǫ̸̡̧̣̠̝̳̩͈̫͙̎̏͂͆̌̒̐̒̑̎̐̅̎́̏̅̚͝͝ ̸̖̲͍͖͚̗̞̰͎̝͇̤̱̬̗̙̀͒͘c̵̡̡̰̮̗̯̯̝̪͇̝͖̼̜̤͉͖͚͍̫̮͙͖̦̺̋͛͛̓̆̐̌̌̾̀̅̐̿̌̽̊̀̈̓̇̐̄̏̈́̊͆̃́̾̄̕͘͜͝͠͠l̵̢̧̧̛̛̦͎̭̼̣̭̮̜̦͉̙̝̩̺̘͍̻͍̎͂̓͑̉͋́̋͑͌͑͐͑̒̀͋͌̆͛̊͐̎͒̌͋̈́͆̈̊̎͛̈͆̎͑̈͝͝ͅͅơ̵̢̧̢͖̞͇̖͇̟̙̻̜͍̟͎͎̮̮͈̝͇͚͇̠̠̳̺͊̿́͆̇̿̀̈́͂̀̄͒̃̐́́̄̚͜͝͝ͅş̷̧̢̨̖͍̝͇̤̫̱͚̝̹͉̮̮̜̖̯̫͔͔͖̝̪̑̈́̿͛̌̓̐̊̈́́̆͊̐͑̽̽̀̓̍̂̀̚̕̚͜͝é̷̛̜͎̠̲̬̤̮͚̹̻̮͗͐͊̅̽̀́͂́́͑͑̿͆͂͒͐̈́̈́̚͝ͅͅ,̴̜̲͚͉̣̱̲̲̻̖̝̺̱̺̒͋͌́̓̉͋͆͌̏̉̏͗́̉̏̿̄͗͑̐̋̋͒̎̐̑͗̀̄̉̚̕͝͝ ̷̛̺́̅̈́͆̔̀̊̋̅̎́̍͗͒̆̈́͑͝a̶̢̨̨̢̧̡͔͇̺͖͇̥̩̗̺̠̭̮̮̻͓͈͉̗̬͈̦͇̩̰̙̫̝̟͚̭̫̫͕̰̘͛̋͗̾͛̀̒̇́́̈́͆̐̅͌́͊̒͑́͊̚̚͜͝ͅͅͅn̵̢̨̢̛̜̟͇͚̱̠̠͖̘̗͎̳̙̼̟̔͐̂͗̈́̆̈́́̅̎̾̓̈́͐͑̎̇̈͗͛̈̈́̑͗͌̏̆͊̽̀̾̋̅͘͘͝͝ͅͅd̷̨̢̢̨̧̡̛͇̪̻͔͚̯͉̮̪̹͚̠̘͚̺͉̺͇͈͉̬̥͈̗̰̩̟̱̩̼̞͕̲̠̻̏̽͊̽̓͗́̒̋̈́̿̈́̒͐́͑̽̆̄̐́͆̄͋̈͑̐͌̽̈́̉͒͊̈̇́̅̚͘͠͠͠ͅ ̵̨̨̡̨̧̛̱̱͚̙̤͙͉̤̫͕̬͚̬͕̪̣͚̖̪̰̼͇̠̺̯͇̱̣͉͔̭̺̝̻̩̭͈͍͕̦̫̞̓̈́̔̃̔͒̀̀̽̾̓̂̒̾̆̓̓̚͜͝ͅa̶̡̢̨̛̛̤̮̗̪̞̰͈̯̫̭̗͓͙̬̖̯̻̮̺̠͈̯͎͎̳̩̜͕͎̖͔̭̭̰̻̠̱̹̰͎̱̝̻̰̎̈́̈́̓̐͊̉̿͌́̽͒̀̓̆̔͌̄̈̀̏̋̀̾̿͛͐̑̾͆́͑͗̋̾͗͘͘̚͘͘̚͜͠͝ ̵̛̛͍̦̯͍̠̮̦͕͋̈͒̔̇̋͂́̄̌͋̐̿͋̂̑͑͌̊̑̐̽͆͋̚͠

Timewarn 1

"One Man's Trash..."

A growing underclass of landfill miners eke out a living on yesterday's refuse. But legislators are keen to shut their operations down.

Ana Caldera operates her mining “dredge” at Roosevelt Regional Landfill, 30 July 2037.

Posted 12 August 2037 by Laura Oberbrunner, Features Editor.

"This is promising."

Ana Caldera watches over ribbons of pulverized waste as they run along the middle conveyor of her mining dredge. With calloused hands she indicates the shreds of paper making up most of the materials in this load. To me it looks much the same as what we've been seeing all day, so I ask her what makes this particular paper different.

"High grade, laminate cardboard," she says matter-of-factly. "Cell phone packaging. Means there's a good chance of finding rare earths."

Ana, 57, is a landfill miner or "dredger," one of a dozen or so who sift their way through the rolling piles that make up Roosevelt Regional Landfill in southcentral Washington State. It's a kind of work that's become increasingly visible across North America over the past few years, and one that's attracted ire from Western Pact and federal lawmakers alike.

About 2/3 of US landfill waste is made up of organic materials, and their breakdown produces methane for power stations across the country. But decades of lax sorting rules and slipshod enforcement has left millions of metric tons of inorganic materials behind as well; stuff like plastics, glass, and -- most importantly -- metals.

That's how the "dredgers" (a term referencing the workers' bespoke mining dredges, which was universally preferred by those I interviewed) make their living. As supply chain disruptions continue, and mines across North America have struggled to keep up with demand, landfill mining has become essential for picking up the slack. Ordinary metals like steel and aluminum are in demand, and rarer ones used in electronics manufacturing -- gold, tin, copper, neodymium, and others -- are at a premium.

According to Dr. Ike Cronin, an economics professor at the University of California in Berkeley, this form of grassroots recycling has been a lifeline for regional manufacturing firms. 

“A decade ago you could buy screens from Uttar Pradesh, chips from Taipei, have everything assembled in Shenzhen,” said Dr. Cronin. “But the global economy isn’t on ‘easy mode’ anymore. That kind of interdependence is no longer an option.”

“Dredgers are the reason you can buy a smartphone off the shelf today. Period.”

Filling that gap, it turns out, is a thankless job. Most dredgers live in RV and tent encampments near their chosen mining sites, saving most of their money or sending it to their families. Working independently or in small cooperatives, the miners only get paid when they can sell their haul -- and though many metals are at all-time high prices in today’s market, they rarely see the full value. Intermediary materials brokers and recyclers buy the sorted waste, with rates depending on purity and consistency; anywhere from 75 to as little as 5% of market value. Less required refining means a better price, which has led some dredgers to try and do as much sorting as they can before handing off their goods.

“Sometimes a newbie will get a wild hair, attach a forge to his rig, maybe think that melting bits down is gonna get him rich,” Ana tells me over the din of her auger. “Most of ‘em get sick off the fumes. A couple guys have burned up their whole dredges doing that.”

“I play it safe,” she adds, pulling out a plastic drawer to show me. Inside is an assortment of black and silver computer chips, an array of sizes from smaller than a fingernail up to larger than a dollar coin. “Getting them off the PCB is usually plenty, I get a good price if there’s not too much resin left over.”

While still practiced in the Western Pact, dredgers operate in a legal gray area, and are sometimes forced to leave a given landfill by private security or local statute. Elsewhere in the US and Canada, many localities and regions have banned or criminalized landfill mining, citing injuries and deaths among miners, trespassing claims from private landfill owners, and at least one well-publicized fire.

Owen Bartell, a councilor representing Lane County, Oregon, has been one of the most vocal members of the Pact Assembly to call for a ban on landfill mining by individuals in the western states.  He believes it’s past time for the Western Pact to outlaw the practice.

“What we have is a population of indigents and illegal immigrants, operating cobbled-together industrial machines in some of the most volatile conditions imaginable,” Bartell said. “They’re endangering sanitary workers and themselves. These people should be in assistance facilities or back in their home countries, not performing this so-called ‘mining.’”

Recently, Dynasty Minerals Inc, a Pact resource extraction firm, announced plans to develop landfill mining, with a pilot program slated to begin in early 2038. It’s worth noting that Dynasty Minerals was a primary supporter of Bartell’s election campaign, but when I asked him about a potential conflict of interest, the councilor insisted that these plans “proved his point.”

“This isn’t a conflict of interest, there’s no way it’s a conflict,” Bartell said. “If anything, this is just an example of how this should be done. Let the state handle these amateur miners, and let the experts handle the resource extraction.”

It’s unclear whe̴̛̜͋͋͠ţ̵̖͚̣̻̎͗̌͘ẖ̴̨͎̳̞̀e̵̱̗̙̳̊̀ͅr̴͖̈́̀̌̔͝ ̸̘͒̀̐̏ĉ̷̢̝̀͆ͅo̷͚͒r̷̥̩̼̫͙̈́̉p̵͓̦̹͈̉̊ͅo̸̤̘̣̓͝r̸̯͌a̶͉̩̥̣͉͗̈̀ţ̷͇͓́͌e̴̪̔̄̂͠ḯ̸͍̝̬n̶̡̬͓̥͎͛̔̀̾͘͜v̵͙̱̮̮͕̲̈́͠o̴̡̨̠̲͙̿̂̍̇̊l̸̞͕͔͔̓̌̎̅͌̚͠v̴̨̨̥̲͙̜̬͇̍̔ė̷̘̝͕̳̙͙̻̱͎̂̄͘m̶̞̉͂̅̀̇̕̕ē̷̮͆̄̄̈́͝ņ̶̃̑̀̌̈ͅt̷͈̄̍ ̸̤͙̠̊͆w̷̢͚͋̈́́̌į̶̞͚̳̝̩͖̤͍͋́̊̓l̴̳̳̀͋͛ͅl̸̢̼̦̯̺͙͔̅̀̑ͅ ̵̖̘̬̞̦̯̲͖͒̋͌̀̔̔͝ͅí̶̢͍̂̎̎m̷̡͖͎͍̀̈̄̋̓̓̓̀̄p̴͕̪͉͋͜r̶͔̝͇̖͌̆͂̾̉͊͋͋̚ơ̷̼̟͊͐̀̄̈́̈̔͝v̴̢̠̈e̵̙͖̭̗̻̮̜̭̬̔̅̅ m̷̫͈͎̺͍̌͋̽̈̏̚͜i̴̠͓̪͂͒̅͌͆̌̆̚͠n̸̛̛̺̬̠͖̬̋͆̄̌̒͆̑̀̀̒i̵̙̲̼͆͒͆̓͂̎̿̄͑̽̔̅͠͝͝ͅn̵͔̟͓͓͔̣͚̞̩̼̜͋̊͗̌̓̈́̿̿͐͊̏͜͠g̶̛̣̊̾̎̋̍͂̉͘͠ ̵͉̗̗̩̩̈̀̚y̶̡̥̺͎̰͔̲̭͖͇̹̱̾̑́́͋̀̽̉̍͝͠i̴͇̍̆̀͗̋̎ͅé̸̢̮̩͓̝̒́͊̆͒͂͑͠ļ̵̰̤̙͐ḑ̸̤̘̞̠̩̬͚̞̦͙͑̉̎̓̋̈́̌͆́̂̔̈́͠ş̵͖̻̦̀̈́̔͋͌̽͑ ̶̡͈̘̙͎̆̍͆̿̏̋̌ͅo̴̧̡̺̻̯͑̀͂̿̂̉̽̕r̸̢̭͂͆̎̈́̂͝ ̷̻͚͈̤̜̞̠͎̤͖̳̀̏́̓̆̃̐́̒́̇̍͜͝͝ĕ̷̢̜͕̺͕̘̳̘̖f̴̢̢̺̱̪̠̜͇̗͜͝f̷͔̯̜͖͕̅͆̿̆͂͜͜ͅi̸̧̳̗̎̈́c̸̢̮͈̤̣̤͋̚͠i̴̻̮̐̈́͛͊̇͒̐͊̈́͒̓̇̚͝͝ę̸̮̖͗͊̅̔̈́̀̚̚͠͠ņ̸̮͇̬̭̪̜̩͉͚̙̭͈̟̈͗̉̐̍͗̽͂́͆̅̅͝͝c̷̛̳͎̪͈͊̎̋̽́̆̑̚͝ỳ̸̨͔͈̟̣̟͇̯̼͔̇͑͐͗͒̈́̋̚͝͠,̸̢̢̡̺͍̮̳̗̯̭͈͔͔͚̾͗̈́̽̓̃̓͘͜ͅ,̷̛͕̥̺͈̦͎̼͚̟̥̪̣̘̮̳̟̰̳̬̠̺̳̙̤̖̤̹̜͍̹̹̞͇̣͉̫̬͕̜͓̜̭͌̐̓̈́̈̈́̾̀́̀̄̆̂̀̾͘̚͠͝͠͠ͅ ̸̢̧̧̫̜̻̝͇̩̰̤͓̞̫̥̹̙̭̭̠̦̳̝̰̠̻̭̮̗̲̤̮͉́̄̑̉̓̀͗̈̋̓͌͆̿͆̉̾̓͛̈́̀̿̃̂̓̌͆̓̏̀̌̕̕̚͠͝ơ̸̡̧̨̜̱̗̠͍͚̞̫̦͈͈̯̤̭̥̥̥̩̳̖̜̦̦̲̩̞͎̆͐͒̈́́̍̊͂̎̉̀́͗̈́̈́̊͌̈́̓̈̽̀̍̿͌̓̏́̎̋̏̔̂̏́̕̚̚̚͜͝͠͝͠͠r̵̢̡̛͓̻̙̖͓̠̖͕̦̻͎̖̲̫̩̺͍͕̫̮̳̠̙̖͙̻̝͕͚͈͎̍̒̉̒̿͒̾̎̅̊͐̈́͛̌̄̓̏͛̓͗̌̑̌̍͆̍̎̋̇́̾̀̀̅̈̋̚̚͜͝ ̸̡̡̧̡̧̧̡̛̛̛̳̥̪͖̤͓̰̗̮̠̪͎̻̦̜̱̭̖͙̲̗̱̦͕̦̝́̉̃͑̔̀͗̓̓͂̽̓́̈̾̍̍͒̑̍͌̎̔̋̃̈́̽̂̄̃̋̔̀̃̐͐̿͜͝͝͝͠w̸̡̛̟̭̞̺͙̗͉̳̞̔̂́̎̑̍̅͒̽̈͗̈́́̓̒̽̈́́̈́̅̿̓̔̏̀́̉̀̈́̍͒̏̚͘̚̕̚ḩ̷̡̡̧̙̝̦̟͓̲̦̭͙͙͈̥͇̪̪̬͎͚̰̭͉̹̱̟̣̭̮̣̻͙͚̣̭͚̟̪̬͖̭̏̋́̊͑̓͒̀̑͒̅̏̓̇̽͗̂́̚̕͜͜͜͜͝ͅe̷̢̧̨̘̬̻͎͉̮̙̣̝̣͙̫̞̱͎͇̰̖̹̟̰̗̫̲̯̞̦̦̲̝̞̣̮̲͍̱͌̍́́́͒̃̉̀̽̀͜͝t̴̢̜͓͚̱̹̱̫̰̦͙̺͚͖̭̣̝̯͚͓̃̿̎̓̈́̂̒͛̃̚͘͠ͅh̴̡̢̢̛̛̞̪̰̙̹̲̯͓̤̝͖̣̳̣̫̙̪̲̥̥̻̪̤͇̹͖̜̟̻̙̳̞͙͍̳͐̐͐̔͂͊͛̀͊̾̅͌̈́̏̐̄̓͂̎̋̎͋̊́̎̽̒̈̚̚̚̕̕͜͜͜͝ͅȩ̷̛̯̳̉̋̇͐̌͊̑̄̅̒̒̌͌̇͛̀̍̈́͂̾͂̎͌̍̑̋͊̆̑͛̈́̍̔̂͘̕͜͝͝ŗ̶̡̢̧̧̛̛͖̺͕̥̹͔̙̞̙̫̦̺͖͓̺̩̘̘̙̞̟̳̦̬̦̙̲̞̮͎̟̣̳͍͕̆̀̍̈̓̇̎̿̍̈́̆̂̃͒̑̓̏̓͑͛͋̊̐̔̍̈́̈́́̀͂̎́̈̐͑̍̚̕̚͝͝ͅͅ ̶͎̄̒̃̀̄̐͂̏͌́͐͑̆́͋͂͘͘͝͠͝͝͠t̶̙͉̯̞͇̯̊̒͋̈́͑̅́̊̂̌̔̋̎̾̆͂̾̒̿̈̚͝ḩ̸̨̠̖͇̱̹̹̳͙̦̘̟͙̬̣͎͈͇̫̣̩̟͕͚̻̹̘̹̜̜͙͇͚̤͈̘̹̦͖͍̇̌́̔̃̈̿̇̌̓̆̄͐̓̈́͛̄̔̈́͆͐̈́̑̅̔̇̆̂̇͂̀̿̅͑̋͝͝ͅͅǐ̸̧̡̩͕̻̼̹̜͈͓͈̦͚͙̮͓̘͉̩̼̙̦͒̓̊̓̽̃͒͐͐̏̀̆̈́͌́̑͒̃̎̆̄͊͗̕̕͜͝͝s̵̛̛̤̜̙͈̼̹̰̣̹̪̦͈̫̮̻͍̘̱̫͌͊͒̈̊̿̓̃̀́͆̒͊̎͛̔̀͆̆̽̓̇͋̔̔͛̏́͂͌̑̈́͒͊̍̑̓͘̕̕̕͝͝ ̶̮̥̟͉̼̾̃̀̆̊̇̎͌̆͝͝ͅw̵̢̛̭̫̩͓̘̃͗̃̐̈́͋̉̍̄̉̀̊̄̿̌͐͛̔́͝͠͝i̷̛̛͚̫̞̩͎͉̣͔̺̹̜͕͙͉̠̮̦̜͈̥̩͉̥̅͑́̇̂̌͐͊͒̏́̒̈́̔̔͋̎̐͐͌̋̊͗̅̇̔͌͒͂͊͐͛̆̅̓́͌́͘̚͜͜͠͠͠ͅļ̷̙͚̜͈̪͕̩̮̦̆̈́̅̉̈́̊̅̂̍̾̃l̷̢̡̧̡̪̙̩̲͉͔̠͎͙͇͍̼͎̖̥̗̱̜͚̜͙̹͎̖̠̘̭̲͍̘̗̅̈́͌̓̍̐̆̾̑̀̓͋́̉͒̽̇̿̐̃̐̓̈́̐̏̍͊̿͗́̏́̆̅̍̾̄̈͒̇̕͜͠͠͝ͅ ̶̡̲͇̩͎̬̞̰͍̟͓̹͔̰͍͎̈͆́̆̒̈͂̑͘͘a̷̛̜̬̻͖̦̪̺̫͙̦̣̞͖̠̣̞̫̦͖̹̘̝͊̌̆̓̓͑̄̒̐͋̎̈́̀͒̅͂̋͜͝t̶̢̛̲̗͙̰͙͔̭̜̠͓̱͎̥̼͚̦̮̘̟͔̆̀̆̌̈́͒̂̀̆͊͆̎́̒̓̊̀̌̏͊̏̆̆̓͛̌̂̓͊̔̃̾̅̆̾͛͆͘̚̚͘͝͝͝t̶̡̧̛̹̟̙̤̤̥͇̦̱̫̞̰̰̤͍̳͚͚̗̬͉̃͋͊̏̋͊̄̇͑͛͗͐̃̋͒̈́̽͋͗͒̎͗͋̈́̄͋̾̑̕͜ͅŗ̷̥͇̱̳̹͕̪͕̈͒̃͌̀́̈́̀̚͘a̴̡̧̧̡̢̢̰̯̭̖͉̪̮͇̙͖̤̺̼̼̫̥͈͖͎͚̫͇̲̱̱̞͕̮̯̯̞̍̓̎̌̈́̀̈́͒͂̿̔͋̀̒̆͌̒͐̀̆̀̿̔͂̔̿͒͆̾͛͒̓̏̄͋̓̽͊̀̔͌͘͘̕͜͜͜͝͠͝ͅͅc̷̡̛͈̲̙͔̤̰̹̝͖͖̪͕̱̠̫̈́̈́͐̔̆̐̒̎̋̾́͆͐͊̌̑̋͛͘͝͝͠

I'm feeling "taken for granted" but given the amount I've taken others for granted, it seems only fair.

It’s chilly. I’m trying to come up with an end to a short story, or a beginning for a whole other stack of them that occurred to me recently. But I keep ricocheting back to that central point. Autumn has been here for a couple weeks, but as ever, my ability to process and internalize that reality lags woefully behind.

It’s not cold, of course. Cold is a different sensation entirely. Cold is less of a weather pattern and more of an unknowable entity, a looming, invisible force that seeks to extinguish everything underneath it. Realistically speaking, I don’t know cold all that well, but I know it well enough to fear it. And it’s not cold here, not by any means. Around 45 or so degrees Fahrenheit. Dusktime. Breezy.

The breeze plays an outsized role in this. The box canyon of my youth had more or less stationary air, and the slightest movement of it prompted locals to say “boy, sure is windy right now.” There were a lot of abrupt transitions when I moved to Seattle; changes in climate, culture, my own circumstances. But the one that stood out right away was the wind. Or, more accurately, the “wind.” I was taken off guard by just how blustery it seemed to be within my first couple days in the city, an amount that didn’t even register to the locals. It felt like a metaphorical slap to the face, a realization of “things are different here” that made me question my self-confidence.

In time I adopted the wind, and dropped the confidence.

Sometimes I wonder who I’d be today, without the doubt. Over time it’s become clear that the confidence I possessed back then was an illusion, a bubble of hot air filled by a careless, selfish woman. Based on nothing, resulting in little, it was more superficial preening than measurably defining. That trait and its aftermath haven’t been with me near as long as the doubt, though. A continual worry of inadequacy applied to any area in which one can be inadequate. My life of gentle, low-consequence failure has only helped that sensation flourish, and much of my adult life has been spent fearing that at any moment I could be dumped, fired, or left to starve.

My inability to recognize myself in the mirror has returned, and I’m betting these feelings are directly related. For now, at least, the breeze is soft, the temperature tolerable, and I want for little.

When the Vikings play the Seahawks, the game often comes down to a question of which team wants to lose more.

The rain is still novel to a point that it’s very welcome, a feeling that will probably stick around due to its curious absence over the summer. The wooden canopy I tend to sit under at this establishment is damp, an occasional cool droplet of water making its way inside, though not so much that it dissuades my use of electronics. My notebooks are strewn about, though presently my words are typed into a keyboard. My phone serves as a wi-fi hotspot, and also provides a somewhat delayed and occasionally interrupted feed of the Seahawks game. The beer is yellow, sour, adequate. The pretzel’s cheese sauce is perfectly salty and fatty, but almost gone.

I’ve written vignettes of this style for quite a long time now, over a decade at least. They’re a fine exercise, a way to keep one’s observational and descriptive powers sharp, and that’s generally my explanation for continuing.

An odd collective noise, one of excitement, then disappointment, issues from inside the bar, which prompts me to glance at the football game. An exciting but failed play, followed by a score from the opposing side. Meanwhile, rain trickles in trails from the street side of the canopy, collecting in the gutter.

There’s a more important reason for me to write in this fashion; my mind is a deeply unreliable narrator. Between the regular bouts of depersonalization and dissociation, it’s hard to feel like I’m actually present for a lot of the events in my past, especially these days. This past week especially has been mired with the two, and further weighed down with feelings of regretful ennui, as well as a vague related notion that I’m missing something in my life.

The traffic is, as ever, annoying, loud, uncomfortably close. A creeping thought reminds me that a moment’s neglect or error on the part of a stranger could effortlessly leave me maimed or worse. I have another sip of beer and try to put the thought from my mind.

That sensation, that dissatisfaction, is untrustworthy on its very face. The era it’s choosing to romanticize, to look back on as the ideal, was not a perfect time. The elements that it longs for were present only fleetingly if not speculatively. Simply put, that feeling is lying to me, a brazen attempt to create discomfort where none should exist. And it’s far from the first time.

The rain has turned into a downpour. Droplets splash against the pavement, leaving my ankles lightly damp. The Seahawks are ahead, but not by a comfortable margin.

I capitulated to these feelings plenty in the past, picked and prodded at things that were perfectly fine, only to cause myself more anguish in the long term. Now, I know better, or believe that I know better. My therapist was quick to suggest that perhaps the impulse is right, perhaps I am in fact missing something. But it seems to me, at least for now, that it’s not worth trusting that unreliable narrator to chase after a feeling that I might not have actually experienced.

The air chills to an extent that I’m tempted to request the waitress turn on the space heater above my table — something I’m perfectly capable of doing myself, but won’t out of respect of liability fears. Instead I order a mug of tea to accompany my last bit of beer, and put on my windbreaker (only to find one arm of it soaked). Minnesota scores, leaving the Seahawks back by 4. The Seattle team takes a second timeout.

For as gentle and peril-less as my life has been, the balance of it has been upset no small number of times. More often by myself, but repeatedly by outside circumstances to disastrous effect. As a consequence, I’m reluctant to upset balances, no matter how precarious they might be, no matter what a new order could look like. The past couple months have already hosted dramatic, dynamic change as far as I’m concerned — why tempt fate by changing things further at the behest of a known liar?

It looks warm inside the bar, but I remain unwilling to frequent the interiors of local establishments. Don’t people know there’s a pandemic on?

Best to keep leaving notes containing objective truth, events that verifiably occurred. Best to keep that untrustworthy bit of dissatisfaction from getting any real traction. No need to knock things over on account of a rogue bit of one’s heart.

Our long nightmare of “somewhat consistent cognitive function” is finally at an end.

I’m having trouble focusing these days, again. Stress-induced, maybe. It’s making sitting at a non-usual beer joint a bit uncomfortable, hearing the chatter of some children on one side and some nimbys on the other. Forced to pick, I’d prefer the children.

Plus there’s a terrible pain in all the diodes on my left side. But I digress.

Been trying to write a short video documentary about the CD-ROM magazine Launch, a peculiarity of the Y2K era. It’s been glacial as all my projects tend to be, so I’m going to put some less organized thoughts about it here and hope that it keeps the gears turning.

Launch was, first and foremost, profoundly weird. Perhaps all the CD-ROM magazines were, I really need to get one of my vintage systems set back up so I can test this theory. But in any case. Imagine a version of Myst, except instead of puzzles, it had FMV interviews with famous musicians, movie trailers, that kind of thing. And ads. Oh good lord, so many ads.

A copy of Issue 9 came packed with our new family PC, a massive Gateway 2000, back in 1996. That similarity to Myst led my brother and I to treat it like another game, though it was a confusing one at best. In retrospect, Launch seemed to shoot for a 24-39 demographic, affluent techheads who though the idea of browsing a magazine on CD was “cool.”

My brother and I, 10 and 7 respectively, were pretty far from that market. We prodded around at the interviews — other than Jewel, who we knew of since Alaskans are required to know about any and all famous Alaskans, we’d never heard of the musical acts. The movies were well above our interest level, the game demos didn’t seem to run on our PC. The included cartoons and digital fiction were… well, unusual. Honestly, we probably spent the most time on the ads — maybe not ideal for the advertisers who paid a thousand dollars per megabyte to be represented on the disc.

Viewed in retrospect, Launch might be easy to criticize — and as I’ve started and stopped my retrospective over the past 6-some years, I made many stabs at criticism. But the more time has passed, the more sympathetic to it I’ve become. Launch tried to be something different, something new. And as an artifact of its era, it’s really impeccable. Not sure if that makes it “good,” but it’s not worthy of ridicule I think.

Nearly seven years ago in New York City, I wrote the words "It knows. It knows I'm here and it's mocking me."

The portfolio I provide to prospective employers is a link to elsewhere on this website, which makes me slightly hesitant to write on this topic here. But as most of these entries are plainly drivel so self-indulgent that it wouldn’t even be printed by the New Yorker, I’m going to go for it anyway. It can’t hurt me much more than any of the other websites I’m listed on.

Received a rejection to a job application today, one that stings quite a bit more than most. Without getting into specifics, it’s a job at a place that is on its face exciting, though working there and learning how the sausage is made would probably leave me disillusioned.

The exciting possibilities, in my experience, are the ones that never seem to pan out. There’s not many of these in my history, but each had me emboldened; giddy at the chance to contribute to an organization whose work I admire. In these cases I did well initially, made it through one or more rounds of consideration, only to wash out with no explanation. The experience isn’t devastating — I habitually anticipate worst case scenarios — but it doesn’t feel great. In this most recent example I even managed to fantasize a bit about what that job might be like, which frankly isn’t easy for me in the first place.

That leaves the rest of my working life, which (save a couple noteworthy exceptions) has mostly been spent adrift, taking whatever job I’m offered. The overall trend has been upward, better jobs, higher pay, but no sense of accomplishment, no feeling that I’m getting closer to the kind of work I want to be doing. (If you’re a prospective or current employer, well, I’m sorry you had to find out this way. It doesn’t mean I hate working there, or that I would.)

Ultimately, work is an area that feels like I’m spinning my wheels; not exactly ideal when, in my mind, I also feel wheelspin much of the time. Not an area my partner is especially helpful in, unfortunately — out of necessity she’s approached work with a tactical eye, and as such doesn’t have much patience for my sullen, work-as-a-requirement view of things. Ah, well. It is still a requirement, I still persist. I do my best. It’d be nice if it didn’t feel like such a strain though.

A green Honda tore by as I was deciding what to write, pursued by three police cars. I hope whatever it was, it was worth running.

The tree under which my door-side seat sits
Is a petulant one. It persistently spits
A curled yellow leaf on my laptop or plate,
In reminder of summer’s inescapable fate.

This would be annoying in a typical year;
A plant shedding parts into one’s amber beer
Or perhaps on their schnitzel, or onto their skin, 
Or in their date’s botanical mixture of gin.

But this year adds a now-familiar displeasure;
As one cannot help but continue to measure
The ways that their life has now solidly strayed
From typical patterns into plans yet unmade, 

Vacations they canceled and jobs they departed,
Now-fallow gym memberships that they started,
The point-of-no-return lines that were crossed,
And — easily worst — all the people they lost.

I’m doing my best just to grapple and wrest
This from being a list of the ways that I’m stressed.
So with that in mind I’ll no longer mope,
And try manifesting the things that I hope.

I hope that humanity’s able to quash
Threats to its existence because, oh my gosh,
If we managed to lick climate change, I’d admire us.
(And that’s not even to speak of the virus.)

I hope my friends, partner, and folks remain healthy.
I hope that justice finds its way to the wealthy,
And the suffering receive according to need
Rather than by the restrictions of greed.

I hope to see home again, hopefully soon.
I hope that my body and brain will fine-tune
And finally work in the way I expect.
I hope something results from the folks I elect.

At best I hope for understanding and peace,
At worst, that the world’s ugliness tends to decrease.
I hope good things come to the good, and at last,
I hope this tree’s next leaf doesn’t land in my glass.

In which I try to select the Chvrches song that best represents the most impactful romantic relationships in my life, while the body of the text trends increasingly toward sedition.

The gap between these has become longer than I’d prefer. There’s been some outside factors at play. Need to work on it, regardless.

2003-2004: Recover

For much of my life I’ve been perhaps a little too vigilant about the myriad aches and pains of my body. Having suffered two cataclysmic health episodes over as many years right at the start of my adulthood (a collapsed lung followed by a particularly awful bout of pneumonia), every sensation out of my respiratory system faced intense scrutiny. The small stabbing chest pains I had once ignored were recognized as a lung thinking about giving out on me, and even the mildest creaking or rasping of congestion while breathing still feels (psychosomatically, I suspect) like it’s the fault of the failure-prone left unit.

2005-2007: Lies

Today, that’s transformed into hypervigilance, which seems to be simply in-step with most of society, and even a tiny sniffle is cause for worry. Today I woke with a very slightly sore throat, which made me start to worry that, perhaps, my sense of smell is off. Now I’m sitting in my usual pretzel and a pint spot (well away from any other customers) and though that doesn’t seem to be the case… yeah. Odds are good that unless I wake up feeling amazing, I’ll sign up for a nasal swab tomorrow and cancel what few plans I had over the long weekend.

2005-2006: We Sink / Asking for a Friend

The pretzel and pint taste just as I remember. Smells, outdoors at least, seem within a standard deviation of their regular intensity. But playing it safe is the duty of a responsible, thoughtful person. Not that the traits are given these days — though I honestly consider myself a little laissez-faire when it comes to my pandemic preventative measures, compared to many folks I’m downright stringent.

2008: Get Out

Which isn’t that much of a surprise, honestly. We live in an era (in this empire at least) where points of data are points of contention, and arguing parties aren’t even in agreement on what they’re fighting over. Add that to systems of belief that have been around for a long time and you end up with a three-sided disagreement. One side points to an existential threat, the second says “that’s nothing, that’s harmless,” and the third fervently proclaims “existential threats are good, actually.” Small wonder that major societal issues make so little progress when a major chunk of the population views their circumstances as little more than a hotel room, a rest stop on their way to a disneyworld-like eternity.

2010-2011: Gun

Does a solution to this exist? Not a realistic one, certainly not at my scale. Such hypotheticals assume a level of omnipotence, the sarcastic snap of a Q’s fingers to restructure institutions shorn up with dust and blood, built atop graveyards. It’s a bit like a goose coming up with solutions for the windshield of the airliner it sees at eye level, an ant coming up with the best way to “solve” the boot overhead.

2011-2013: Bow Down

Eventually some rant about Alaska politics will appear on here, as they exist at a scale that it’s possible for an individual to influence (though those days may be waning). In the interim, I’ll ask; why is it considered reasonable that someone 2000 or more miles away from us has more say over our problems than we do? Simply put, why do they get to be the boot?

2015, 2017-present: Leave a Trace / Empty Threat

Constantly running my tongue over a fresh mental filling. So to speak.

Dentists have come a long way in trying to dispel the agony associated with their profession. But that’s resulted in one of the more curious sensations one can experience legally today: an overt absence of pain.

This isn’t comfort by any means. Rather, it is explicitly the feeling of one knowing they should be feeling pain, but not feeling it. As my teeth have decayed with age, the act of sitting, reclined, mouth open and playing host to a power tool, has become a yearly occurrence at least. But for all those excavations, I’ve felt nothing. My conscious mind knows that the grinding vibrations that are radiating through my skull should be accompanied by agonizing pain. Yet, other than the general discomfort of holding my mouth open while a relative stranger jams a drill here and there, the event is basically an inconvenience — a chunk of time that I have to lay motionless and watch something on Netflix that I can’t quite hear.

To be clear, as a middle-millennial, I’ve never experienced the agonizing dental procedures that my parents once did. But on a fundamental level, I can tell what’s happening. Part of me is being violently removed by a spinning chunk of metal. It is causing traumatic damage to a part of my body, however small. And yet, I feel little more than vibrations. It’s a combination of anticipation and omission, bracing for an impact that never arrives.

Mentally I’ve had something similar going on. Without going into too much detail here, I recently sealed away the “Baba Yaga,” an individual and set of memories that caused me a substantial amount of pain over the years. In doing so, I identified a negative tendency associated with those thoughts. And once identified it simply… went silent. The result is a similar feeling to a dental procedure. I should be hearing a persistent, sullen voice that attacks me at all hours, tears me down, does its best to drag me to its level. I should be hurting. But for now I simply… don’t.

It’ll come back someday, I’m sure. But the momentum I’ve gained in its absence is very promising. It offers some time to prepare so it doesn’t lay me so low again when the sedative wears off.

"You know better than to trust a strange computer."

Boston Dynamics released a new video a few days ago, demonstrating the parkour-style movement their Atlas humanoid robots can now perform. Inside my head, I screamed with fresh yet tired horror.

My friends know me as somewhere between a "tech enthusiast" and "general nerd" and they aren't wrong. My fascination with gadgets and gizmos of many kinds is lifelong, to the extent that it's made me a go-to person for tech advice among my friends — and mildly annoyed more than one partner over the years. But despite that general enthusiasm, I have some firm boundaries for when tech is "too much." Sometimes it's a reaction to tech with deeply concerning implications (things like deepfakes and mass surveillance leap to mind), other times it’s a snarky knee-jerk to "new" innovations that pointlessly complicate things that already exist (the Hyperloop is a good example there). Frequently it's rolling my eyes at Kickstarter toys that address issues so niche as to make the device utterly trivial — though, in fairness, those are usually good for a laugh.

Most often the feeling is evoked by the field of robotics. On paper, I should be exactly the target market for the field. As a child, repeated viewings of Star Wars and hours of video games made me want a mechanical buddy to bring along on adventures. On the consumer level, that promise is yet unrealized — the only robot I own is a wheeled semicircle that constantly gets stuck under stairs and low furniture like a particularly incompetent R2 unit. (At least he keeps the floors fairly clean.)

My turning point was 2008, when Boston Dynamics posted footage of their four-legged "Big Dog" robot. By modern standards the robot seems clunky — grainy video of a slow, buzzing quadruped. But two things stuck in my head. One was the uncomfortably animal-like way Big Dog moved when it slipped or got pushed around, an impression that's stuck with me through every new announcement from the company.

The other was knowing where the tech would show up first. Like most of Boston Dynamics' projects, Big Dog's intended application was military, a pack beast for military troops. Given our then years-long track record with remote-piloted robot planes, my gut told me it wouldn't stop there, that we'd see more designs, potentially some weaponized, in the hands of military and police. It seems my gut is right so far — while Big Dog was unsuited to its role, that base design led to others that are currently in testing with militaries and police departments.

Which brings us back to Atlas. There's plenty to be scared of from weaponized four-legged robots (not to speak of wheeled bots, or quadcopters). But one that moves like a human, can use human equipment, human weapons, well, that's a kind of disturbing that has been speculated on in science fiction for generations. Combine that with the inevitability that Atlas will, first and foremost, serve military and police, and the disquiet grows. Will Atlas units be piloted remotely, a kind of up-close and personal take on the many (many) drone bombings the US has carried out over the past two decades? Worse, will they be allowed to operate independently, choosing to pull the trigger based on potentially flawed or inherently biased algorithms? One or the other seems inevitable; both, on a long enough timetable.

I still want an android buddy. But by the time they're available to us, their blood-soaked origins may be too much to ignore — assuming we aren’t already familiar with their exploits in the streets of our cities by that point.

This is probably a form of poetry, but I'll deny it to my dying breath.

With surprising haste considering the length of time between their last two albums, the supposed architects of post-ambient triphoptronic indie-trance are back yet again! The Alasko-Cascadian masters of music Shred Memory are back again, and they’ve brought yet another new album (though experts strongly suspect they have an extensive back catalog to draw from after so long out of the spotlight.)

Departing from their dip into experimental opera, Time Yet Again is a more traditional arrangement of tonal air vibrations commonly recognized as “notes,” played in a sequence that’s considered pleasing to most listeners and typically referred to as “music.” This latest venture is available on two HD-DVDs, each sealed permanently into an Xbox 360 HD DVD Player with no cables or instructions on how to use it. And it’s rumored that the band removed lasers from the drives to make cool toy phasers that can pop balloons.

Critics are universally loving Shred Memory’s return to form. The Portland Mercury raves “we’re still not feeling totally okay after the last one,” Polaris News writes “what the hell is an HD DVD anyway,” and the Seattle Times has replaced its review with a full-page ad begging Jenny Durkan to run for mayor again.

---

Disk 1

Dreary Inventory, Invalid Assessment
That’s A Bit Too Much Now
She’s So (Royksopp cover)
You Were Beautiful, I Was Unarmed
Five Hours (Deorro cover)
Wall-to-Wall Non-Stop Professionalism*
This Was A Mistake
Sone Musik (Deichkind cover)
To One Year In Particular
Canyon.mid (George Stone cover)
Fancy Seeing You Here
†WIN PΣ▲KS (†▼BF▼CK cover)
Weighing A Handful of Cashews
Sudden Realign
Superman (Goldfinger cover)

Disk 2

Masked in the Banh Mi Shop
Climbing The Walls
lol jk unless
The Stars Are Projectors (Modest Mouse cover)
Unnecessarily High Ceilings
Vergil
Out of My Head (CHVRCHES cover)
Summer Up, Simmer Down
The Ballad of Phineas Gage
Will You Dance? (Bird and the Bee cover)
This Guy Has Got To Get The Fuck Out Of Here
Dear Sergio (Catch 22 cover)
You Were A Lot Nicer Sixteen Years Ago
The Archivist’s Son Resigns Himself To Deletion
Reconstruct (Photay cover)

Methodology

I have a piece that I've been plugging at on and off for the past few days. Honestly still unsure if I'm going to post it or not; it's a bit personal, even though it doesn’t really include any personal details.

We'll see. Odds are good I'll come up with something else entirely, soon.

"They call it a wasteland, baby."

It’s not what one would immediately describe as smoke. Everything’s a little hazy, yes, the yellow sun is tinged an unmistakable hue of orange-red, those are consistent. But there’s no distinct smell, not the pleasant burn of woodsmoke nor the acrid stink of chemical fire. It feels less like an object, a thing sitting on the landscape, than it does a filter, a layer added in post-production that stings at our eyes and scratches at our throats.

Back home, summer smoke became a regular occurrence. At its most extreme it would render the world unrecognizable, an impenetrable yellow fog preventing vision beyond a few feet ahead, but it was always ashy, wood-tasting, unmistakably organic in nature.

Through my life, the arrival of smoke has served as a sort of a descending curtain, the signaling of an interlude or the transition between acts. It felt significant, and, smelling as it did of campfires, it seemed just a little bit comforting, merely an indicator of change. And it has tended to accompany change, though that’s probably just coincidence.

Viewed through the same lens, this current smoke is troubling. It doesn’t offer a scent that might suggest its origins, it harms everyone exposed to it, and arrives accompanied by health warnings and a heat so stifling that it makes this Alaskan transplant once again wonder just how life ever flourished this far south. (Though this type of heat is soon to be everyone’s problem.)

Part of me hopes that it is a transition nevertheless. Perhaps it’s a sign of the caustic emotional haze I’ve been in for the past few weeks, soon clearing to demonstrate that these things won’t necessarily last. Maybe it signals the shift from the me that has been, to the me I’m trying to become.

It’s nicer than thinking of it as merely an omen, a sample of how summers will be for the rest of my life. But I guess there’s no sense in dwelling on inevitabilities.

Greenwood Ave., early evening.

The worn faux-bronze plaque on the similarly worn wooden table encourages patrons to sit with strangers “as in Germany,” plainly contradicting the current social mores (if only due to age). The waitress, curly brown hair tied back in a ponytail, fashionable black tanktop over somewhat more utilitarian green shorts, brings out a glass of golden-yellow pilsner and a hot pretzel, accompanied on its plate by rock salt and two squirts of different mustards. I can’t see her nose or lips under her mask; it seems fair that she can’t see my eyes.

For all the effort put into the creation of these little streetside beer gardens and cafe tables over the past year and a half, their illusion is consistently undone by the persistent hiss of tire noise and the rumble of the occasional large engine. They’re an imperfect solution, but that’s hardly a strike against these outdoor spaces; in this world, especially over the last couple years, perfect solutions aren’t easy to find.

As regional temperatures spike yet again from the uncomfortable into the deadly this little vignette takes on an absurd tinge; sitting in the shade, comfortably enjoying wheat and water and hops and malt, while reading about failing crops, dwindling reservoirs, and forests consumed in flame. Meanwhile, an impossible distance away, a national government made up of calcified bureaucrats and intractable elites dithers away the days, alternately arguing pointless minutiae or pitching pointlessly draconian solutions to non-issues.

Personally I’ve been stressed out by climate change to some degree or another for at least my entire adult life. A decade ago, though it seems like a lifetime, most of these issues were the same, but between a charismatic leader and limited evidence, the threat was less concrete. That didn’t stop my anxiety; I decried the Paris Accords as toothless, other measures as inadequate, always fearing a future where claiming I once knew the taste of beef and whiskey was laughable. Back then I worried I was an alarmist — now more and more people are arriving where I once was, and I’m just exhausted.

This observation is just as toothless, to be clear. Large-scale change is an inescapable necessity if Terra is to remain habitable for our species, much moreso to curb the worst effects. But I’ve done nothing to that end; I work in tech, use more than my share of electricity gleefully, my habits almost certainly damage the world more than they restore it. Not that it’s a lot of harm compared to the handful of the people at the top. But I am, as ever, a hypocrite.

The waitress takes my now-empty plate, asks if I’m “doing alright on beer,” which I confirm that I am. Take my last few sips, listen in as the neighboring table fawns over an old golden retriever as it walks by. Pay my tab, digital values moving from one array to another rather than any physical exchange. The hiss of the cars continues throughout. Progress, it seems, is unwilling to stop for now.

Today, my band is once again named for the first time in a while.

After a years-long and unexplained hiatus, the self-described masters of post-ambient triphoptronic indie-trance are back. Alasko-Cascadian act “The Qoz” have returned from the studio at long last, and the white smoke indicates that they’ve finally completed an album.

Their latest, a concept opera released in a surprisingly typical format (3 CDs, 18 8-track cartridges, or 1459 1.44” floppy diskettes), is a tribute to their late friends and tourmates, The Shortstacks. Titled “Sixteen Years,” the album has already attracted rave reviews from the press.

The Stranger writes “it’s clear this guy is heartbroken, but that’s all we can really place,” Pitchfork muses “not sure why the album took this long but boy does it ever hurt,” and the Seattle Times somehow turned their entire review into a call to sweep homeless encampments.

---

Act I
Outside the Crossroads
Log In, Say Hello
Romantic Rights (Death From Above 1979 cover)
Apples for You, Apples for Me
Glass Danse (The Faint cover)
Snapped Antenna
Whispers In My Ear
Didn’t Want to Push / No Examinations
Everything But That
Direct Connect
Never There (Cake cover)
She Gave You The Eye
Nighttime Stroll / Dare Me (Pointer Sisters cover)
You’re Awake. That’s Silly.

---

Act II
Lisztomania (Phoenix cover)
Nostalgia
Rise and Fall
Tamer Animals (Other Lives cover)
Distant Trinkets
You’re Going To Make It / Make You Better (Decemberists cover)
Did You Just Let Me Talk The Entire Time?
Ramona Quimby
You’re Quite Comfortable
Turntable’s End
The City (Madeon cover)
The Show
Long Past Gone (Jami Sieber cover)
Come Over For Stew
Going Back to School, Pt. I (Math the Band cover) / It’s a Departure (Long Winters cover)

---

Act III
Astonishingly Dark / Into The Drift
A Tiny, Foggy Window
Distant Pings
Return to Format / The Show (reprise)
Quarantined (At The Drive-In cover)
Blessings and Curses
Cute Duo
Hunter’s Arrow / Freeze Me (Death From Above 1979 cover)
Like Eating Glass (Bloc Party cover)
Fishtails / Nostalgia (reprise)
Unremembered Artifacts
Continuum (At The Drive-In cover) / The Execution
Mapping Shrapnel / Glowing Cat Nursery Rhymes
Least I Could Do
Settler (Balmorhea cover) / Outside the Crossroads (reprise)

The 10mm HV in "F.E.A.R. First Encounter Assault Recon" is bullshit and I will stand by this opinion until I die.

(This is a complete rewrite of an earlier draft that was unceremoniously deleted by Squarespace. Remarkably nostalgic platform, insofar as it makes me nostalgic for something with autosave. Like any word processor from the past twenty years.)

One of my most frustrating personal quirks is a refusal to use strategies that seem “unbalanced” or otherwise “unfair.” This might seem like something that only really applies in games and play, and that is where it manifests most frequently; I refuse overpowered weapons, unusually strong characters, and tactics that are provably consistent, simple, and successful. What’s more, I judge those who don’t refuse them rather harshly. Simply put, I insist on winning on my own terms, which often means I just don’t win.

This has popped up to a frustrating degree in my real life as well. Upon earning my associate’s degree, the smart move would have been to land an IT job in my hometown and start building up a savings account. Instead, I moved to an unfamiliar city with a way more crowded job market, and began working at a bank in the midst of a global financial crisis. When I went back to earn my bachelor’s degree, I chose — deliberately — to study journalism, a dying profession in which one cultivates dead mediums. It occurred to me then, and still does, that with just a little more moral flexibility (and most likely agency) I could have pinched my nose, adopted the smarmiest personality I could muster, and studied business instead. But I continue to choose the more difficult path.

The most trite way to wave off these thoughts is the cliche line “winning isn’t everything.” And, true, it’s not. But for as noncompetitive as I am, the fact is that winning is generally more fun. Money can’t buy happiness, true. But it can buy the material conditions that lead to happiness, and honestly I don’t that’s a big enough difference to nitpick.

I know better than to open the door to regret — doing so only leaves one soaking until the flood decides to recede. (Previously I believed to know this, but after the past month I really, really know it.) Though I tend toward dissatisfaction, constantly picking at scabs and seeking small optimization to things that work quite well enough, the truth is that my life is uncommonly good. I live a charmed existence, and that is due at least in part to the decisions that I’ve made along the way. Denying that serves nobody.

And, if I’m being honest, the “easy” approaches I so look down my nose at are probably not that easy. The in-game tactics that I so abhor are only as good as the person who spends time practicing them. The career tracks I passed up require hustle; one need only glance at the post dates over on the episodes page to conclude I terminally lack the attribute.

So I guess the goal of my present rearrangement, then, is to figure out how to win on my own terms, rather than trying to wring hustle from a stationary stone. Maybe I’m making progress; at this point, it’s pretty hard to tell. But I’m not ready to start taking cheap shots just yet.

Been wearing my shoes inside like some kind of barbarian.

Despite recently being in (and retaining a little of) a haze of grief over the past month, the future at the moment feels alight with possibility. I’ve been walking around with purpose — shoes on, a lot of the time, just horrid — staring in the mirror with less of the typical loathing or confusion, and stringing together at least a few words each day, some ink, some digital.

I know better than to trust this feeling. The sensation that I’m on the cusp of something great is one that pops up from time to time. It doesn’t correspond to anything I can identify; it arrives unprompted, compels me to heroically pose and gaze at the lightless void that constitutes my view of the future, and departs just as abruptly. No material change, no personal improvement, just a brief flash of illusory optimism.

Part of me wants to say that this time is different. “After all,” it says, “we just went through an unforeseen and previously unencountered trauma. We’re trying to do things differently now! Feeling possibility is only natural.” Maybe it’s right. Changes to methodology aren’t something I make frequently, and though it hasn’t been long, the results seem positive so far.

So far. Therein lies the rub. A week of effort is not habit, renewed energy is not a completed task, and a feeling is just a feeling. Letting myself believe that this is a true upward trajectory risks disappointment—be it a normal one in the face of failure, or an even more painful one if further unforeseen tragedies occur.

Plus, there’s always the risk associated with talking about projects. For whatever reason, enthusiastically discussing plans nails the same pleasure centers as actually completing the plans. Talking too much, too soon, has killed so much of my work and goals that it’s actively uncomfortable to re-examine.

It therefore remains best, as ever, to not fall into the trap. I’ll keep the energy as long as I can, of course, the daily walks and word-stringing and planning will continue. Consistency is important for maybe creating something real. But until something different (in a good way) happens, for real, remaining braced for the worst seems prudent if not essential.

And seriously, who wears their shoes in the house?