#to be fair I’m pretty sure it was targeted at Gen z
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CALYPSO 🐚 ☕️
Part 1 & Part 2
Part 3/3:
Nines froze as the human’s body melded to his. Gavin kept his eyes shut and his lips moving. Then what he’d been bracing for finally came.
Pain.
Sweet glorious pain, blossoming everywhere Nines gripped his body. Gavin was sure that his lips would bruise under the pressure of the reciprocal kiss… that his rib cage would shatter if Nines held him any tighter… that his lungs would burst if they didn’t fill with air soon…
A wolf-whistle broke through the stunned silence in the yard.
Gavin pulled back, light-headed from the rush of oxygen and drain of adrenaline. He didn’t fall though. Didn’t even move an inch. Strong arms and a heated gaze kept him pinned.
//
\\
“Of all the things in the world… why coffee?”
“I could ask you the same.”
Gavin tucked his head into the crook of Nines’ neck, cuddling closer.
“Hmm… I think weird working hours made me actually need the caffeine… but the bean snobbery just came with the rest of my superiority complexes.”
Nines laughed. It was more of an exhale than an actual laugh, but Gavin was thankful for it nonetheless.
“And you?”
Nines kissed his forehead, prolonging his answer as much as he could before finally relenting with a sigh.
“The reason you’re asking… is because running a café is just about the last thing you’d expect an android like me to be doing. And… that’s your answer. That’s exactly why I wanted it.”
“To subvert expectations…?”
“To not be the terrible thing I was meant to be.”
Gavin’s breath hitched at the depth of emotion in Nines’ voice. He didn’t dare look up to meet his eye and settled for pressing his lips to the razor-sharp jawline.
“I dunno what kinda code runs through you, but believe me when I say you don’t have it in you to be… terrible.”
Nines scoffed at that.
“How can you say that after all the shit you’ve seen me do.”
“I can say that after all the shit I’ve seen others do. Fifteen years on the job, remember? I can vouch that righteous anger is one of the least terrible things out there.”
When Nines didn’t respond, Gavin decided to move the ship out of uncharted waters. He propped himself up on an elbow and ran a hand down the android’s smooth chest.
“In fact, I think it’s downright sexy.”
That did the trick. Nines pressed Gavin into the mattress with a low growl and rolled over him, clamping his mouth over his throat. Their hips aligned and the conversation ended.
//
\\
“Ralph tried hard but the machine is not working. Ralph is stuck.”
“Move. Let me see.”
Gavin took the filter holder and disconnected it from the espresso machine with a firm tug. He leapt away in shock as water came rushing out. That was absolutely not supposed to happen.
“Er… I’ll get a mechanic friend to take a look later. Why don’t you go check on inventory?”
Ralph shuffled away with a thoroughly sceptical look in his eye. Gavin sighed openly once the android was out of earshot.
The café was in shambles.
The vandals may have gotten as good as they gave… but they’d left their mark. Even with insurance, there was no way such a new establishment could financially recover from a setback like that.
Nines said nothing but seethed with his usual brand of silent, impotent rage.
Unable to bear the slammed car doors and dismissive grunts any longer, Gavin had taken a solo day off to come down to the Calypso and see what could be done.
Not much, without a boatload of money, it seemed.
He sat down with a sigh and Ralph brought over a cup of coffee. Black. A pour-over. He set a bowl of runny eggs and a small basket of bread down on the table too.
Gavin looked up in surprise. Ralph shrugged.
“Nines is telling Ralph that you left without breakfast. Ralph’s equipment is all broken so Ralph just made something simple.”
Touched beyond words, Gavin motioned for Ralph to sit down with him instead of scurrying off into the shadows as per his usual habit.
He took a sip of the hand-poured drip coffee and broke a piece of the bread, dragging it through the eggs, European style. It was utterly homely and reminded of him of some bygone era that he’d needlessly bypassed. He looked up and met Ralph’s mildly unsettling stare.
“So… why the name Calypso? There’s nothing beach-themed or Caribbean about the place.”
“Nines chose it. After the Greek goddess.”
“Huh. And she was the goddess of coffee? Did they even have coffee back in those Hercules Orgy Olympics days?”
“She is a sea nymph. She detained the mythic hero Odysseus on her island for seven years.”
Gavin’s brows furrowed as he swallowed a mouthful of fresh bread.
“Did you bake this?”
“Yes. Ralph is baking daily. Ralph does it first thing in the morning at five. It is very calming to knead the dough and hear the birdsong.”
“It’s phcking delicious. Leavened perfectly. Now back to the name. This goddess nymph creature. She doesn’t sound very nice. She trapped this hero dude, right? Reminds me of my ex. Why name this pretty café after her?”
“Ralph can only imagine that Nines’ fascination with Calypso is the ambiguity of her nature. She can seduce and manipulate, but she can also heal. She is neither good nor evil.”
Gavin drained his coffee and sank back in his chair contemplatively.
“What do you think she is, Ralph?”
Ralph’s LED flickered and his eyes dipped to the table. He knew what Gavin was asking.
“Calypso is immortal. Calypso cannot help but fall in love with every sailor who lands on her shores. Calypso dreams of an eternal husband but lets Odysseus go when it’s clear he wishes to return to his wife. Well, maybe only when the Gods commands her to… but she releases him without harm!”
Gavin waited. Ralph’s head snapped up and he spoke in a short burst.
“Calypso is mythical. It does not matter what she is. Nines is real. Nines is good. Very good. Honest and honourable! Ralph will do anything for Nines!”
Gavin leaned back in his chair with the satisfied smile of an experienced police negotiator who’d gotten exactly where he wanted to.
//
\\
“What the hell is this? Where did you get so much money from?”
Nines’ amber LED cycled furiously as he took in the sight of the restored café. Ralph was humming to himself as he proudly polished the knobs of their repaired espresso machine.
Gavin led Nines by the hand to look at the repainted walls… the new furniture… the new crockery replacing what had been smashed…
“How…?”
“Oh I just embodied my inner Gen Z and tapped into the power of social justice.”
Nines looked thoroughly nonplussed.
“Crowdfunding, baby. I set up a link and Ralph told everyone on Twitter what happened to him and the café. Well, showed them, more like.”
Nines looked up at the ceiling and his LED slowly returned to a calm blue as he understood… but when he looked back down, his expression wasn’t any less troubled.
“Okay I just saw it. Edited footage from his optical units and a tearful testimonial. Ethically questionable, but clever.”
“Super effective. We overshot our target by a couple hundred bucks.”
“Hmm. People are kind.”
“Yes. They’ve actually done more for you. Look. Connor gave me this earlier today.”
Gavin reached into his jacket and produced an envelope. Nines’ eyes widened as he spotted the official seals of the Mayor’s office, the Manfred Estate and New Jericho.
“Someone started a petition… to let you back behind the helm of the Calypso. It really took off. I don’t know how you didn’t hear-”
“I muted any mentions of myself and the other RKs from showing up in my newsfeed.”
“Then this makes for a good surprise.”
Gavin gently pushed the envelope into the android’s hands and watched him open it with a precise fingernail flicked under the wax. He scanned the contents of the letter in a split second and let it fall through his fingers.
Without warning, he scooped Gavin up and set him down on a polished table for a deep kiss of even deeper gratitude. Ralph turned his back on them with a bashful giggle.
//
\\
“Baby.”
Nines didn’t respond.
“Hey baby?”
“Hmm...”
There was an intensity to the grumble that had Gavin second-guessing whether to persist. Being Nines’ lover didn’t exempt him from the consequences of asking stupid questions.
“Your thoughts are fucking loud. Just say whatever you want to.”
“Oh. Um… I was actually wondering… I mean, you don’t have to tell me… but like why… um…”
“Why haven’t I turned my badge in yet?”
“Yeah…”
Nines turned on his side and brushed the back of his hand over Gavin’s cheek. The intimate gesture sent a thrill through the human despite how much more intimate they’d just been in the recent past.
“Because I haven’t decided what to do next.”
Gavin’s brows knitted together.
“What do you mean? Aren’t you going to take back your business?”
Nines’ wan smile told him all he needed to know.
“Why?”
“It’s doing really well in Ralph’s hands. He’s capable. He’s creative. And I don’t think it’s fair for me to go back and get in his way all of a sudden.”
“He needs you.”
“He absolutely doesn’t. It’s his café. You helped him get back on his feet and he’s going to be fiiiiine without me.”
“Is it because you don’t wanna be her anymore?”
Nines scrunched his nose up in confusion.
“Who?”
“Calypso. The siren who trapped the Oddball.”
That earned Gavin a heartfelt laugh.
“Odysseus, Gavin.”
“Yeah. You were like Calypso and now you’re letting go of the coffeeshop because you figured it wasn’t meant to be!”
Nines frowned and pretended to check the human for a temperature. Gavin swatted his hands away with mock petulance.
“Fine, I’m probably way off the mark. You tell me what the deal is then!”
Arms snaked around his waist and pulled him flush against the android’s defined chest. Lips brushed the shell of his ear and when Nines spoke next, it was in the huskiest of undertones.
“I’m Odysseus. Not Calypso.”
The realisation was painfully obvious in hindsight.
“I’m the one who’s stuck on an endless journey home. I’ve faced a hundred artificial trials and tribulations. I’ve been a puppet at the hands of false gods. I answer existential questions to prove my self-worth every single day.”
Nines paused to gauge Gavin’s reaction. When he received none, he pressed a brief kiss to the human’s bare shoulder before continuing.
“It’s been a long journey. But not a pointless one. Every metaphorical island I’ve visited has granted me something. From literally running into Ralph in an old building… to defending our turf from other stray androids… getting ourselves off the street… setting up a café from scratch… being arrested on opening day… ending up on the police force with you…”
Gavin recognised that as his cue to squirm around in Nines’ arms and peck him on the lips.
“So who’s Cyclops?”
“What?”
“The story’s starting to come back to me now. Your boy Oddy fought a one-eyed monster on one of the islands he went to. Who’s the Cyclops in your story?”
Nines huffed another breathy laugh.
“Markus, probably. Connor is definitely Helios.”
“Who’s your wife?”
“Definitely not you.”
Gavin elbowed him in the ribs. An action that had more repercussions on him than Nines.
“So which island are you off to next?”
“I have no idea. But it doesn’t matter. I might already be home.”
#reed900#rk900#gavin reed#dbh nines#dbh rk900#gavin900#gavin x nines#gavin x rk900#dbh gavin#dbh ralph#dbh markus#dbh connor#dbh#dbh fanfic#dbh writing#my writing
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—gen z mc with uesugi-takeda + misc. forces
ahh, i’m so glad people liked my gen z oda hcs! lol it’s usually pretty slow from my writing blog experiences until now, but i’m rlly happy! i was planning to do u-t and the others but then i decided to stop at oda and continue another day. thx for the asks tho! and yeah, i do take requests but it’s more of a pasttime, since this whole blog is just my stupid ideas written out and shared out there.
also someone said that a gen z mc could be old enough to romance the warlords, like, early twenties. and yes, very fair if u wanna romance ur mans with memes and existentialism go for it!! i just think it adds more to the comedy side of this child they have to babysit, while not fearing death or any consequences from their dumb of Ass decisions. someone who fears no death and armed with no braincells is a fool, but a Child who fears no death and armed with no braincells is also a fool, but more bizzare and has That Vibe y’know
@niphredil-14 and @arthotsglasses
tw: s*icidal, violent jokes treated in a light manner
also spoilers to some things of their characters
—kenshin:
who is this,, , sassy lost child??
he first saw you prepared to throw hands with ronins who were being Elite Dickheads. ofc, armed with nothing compared to the sworded-adults, he had to interfere.
no matter how cold he treated you, masking his secret !!!-like concern, you seemed so unfazed through it. you still interacted with him like normal,,,,, why?? do you want a death wish?
and each time he threatened you with,, anything, you responded with, “the only one who gets to hurt & kill me, is ME”
...... what?
he’s convinced you’re the biggest fool of a person. and he’d be right but even so, he has a weirdly strong need to protect you as you two got closer. you’re often with sasuke, so it’s harder to avoid you.
even with all the Horrible jokes you make on a daily basis, if your passionate side with everyone having equal rights of being treated as human, for him it shows a side of you that makes you seem precious and pure and kind hearted.
and the overprotective side increases.
which is, ,, a bit problematic sometimes cause you have the tendency to target and piss off anyone in a 10 meter range by just one (1) sassy comment, along with your lack of impulse control and blurting out everything in your mind. it’s made you a lot of short enemies in the sengoku period, and kenshin would always be ready to slice them down behind you.
sasuke has to tame him down with his Masters degree in kenshin-wrangling.
at banquets, kenshin would often have you beside him. if you’re too young for sake do age for drinking exist in sengoku? probably not. it’s more of sasuke advising for him to not give you alcoholic drinks he’ll have you pouring for him or just munching away at pickled plums or food.
—shingen:
(ngl i kinda had a hard time with this since it’s erasing a big part of his overall character,,, flirting)
once he heard the news that oda had taken in somone as young as you during honno-ji,, ,,,he’s in a very “how dare that demon >>:( taking such a pure soul,....”
and when you’re taken to kasugayama as a captive, you’re,,, surprisingly very calm and whelmed. you don’t have much sign of fear or anxiety in your overall demeanor meanwhile you’re busy dissociating and spacing out to feel those
you actually don’t seem to hate your captor. but shingen isn’t sure if your ‘fingerguns’ is a good thing or not cause it depicts you pointing guns @ him,, (dw is good shingen)
while yes being held hostage—no matter how good you’re being treated—isn’t ideal and kinda not very cash money, you consider shingen v chill. man has a kindheart!! “i diagnose you with good vibes.”
if he ever sees your righteous side, as everyone else, he’ll deeply admire you. he himself is someone who believes in such as well. and hearing the circumstances in the modern world regarding those things (blm, etc.) his heart truly does go out for you. he feels sympathy for such a young person like you having to take action
also your dirty humor around him, echigo’s player, kind of makes him question where and how you learnt it
and,, his illness.
through getting straight to the point and not falling for it each time he changes subject/dodges the question, you managed to get to the bottom of his illness. shingen himself thinks it’s not something you have to burden with knowing—you’re so, so young.
but that doesn’t matter to you. the world’s given you such a shit time, you’re mature enough to understand the situation at least.
and as he finishes his explanation, all there was is silence. it felt wrong to say any of your usual quips,, so all you did was slowly came there and hugged him.
that was more than what he’d ask for.
—sasuke:
oh hell yeah
you are in your element with him. the chillest guy to talk to, and probably the first one you’re the closest to
your phone was dead after like 2 days of use, and you were miserable while hideyoshi, like a typical parent, told you to go outside and into town. sensing your bad mood, sasuke asked what’s up. you deadpanned, “my phone game ended and now i’m ready to commit not breath.” you oslemnly look out in the bustling streets and clutched your fist like an Anime Protagonist, “those boomer memes were right all along... i am absolutely Miserable and Useless(^TM) without it.”
in response, you could’ve sworn he did the Anime Glasses thing as well, “then we at team Moderately Awesome Sengoku Ninja are happy to announce the launch of a DIY phone charger, made with the electricity from a fruit and the main functionality of a solar panel. and has more durability than samsung’s.”
there were Stars in your eyes now. with a big grin, you thank him, “i’d die for you, sasuke.”
“then perish.” he said with a blank look. (yukimura, in the bg: ???!!!??!??!?)
the next day he consentually breaks in through the ceiling and gives you the weird contraption. you’re now saved, soul-wise.
the memes start coming and they don’t stop coming from the two of you. in any situation. whether it’d be at a teahouse, or at a battlefield that can determine your life and death.
and you can have discussions about current world events, or the past ones, with him and he’d understand completely what you’re talking about. it’s those rare nights when you’ve been thinking and have a deep conversation with him in his room, and as an adult, it makes for interesting results as well.
the others are endlessly confused, but you’re both so unapologetically yourselves.
and he’s super protective if the circumstances are tough. he feels bad for dragging another person in the sengoku with him—much less when they’re so young like you.
if you’re enough of a lil shit, once you’re taken into kasugayama, in the nights where you can’t sleep because brain at what would be 3 am, you’d probably trudge over to his room and wake him up to tell him what kind of mind-blowing shit you realized.
—yukimura:
when he saved you from falling to your death, your reaction already set off weird Vibes inside him. what do you mean, “you stopped me from fleeing this fleeting world by the sweet embrace of death” ?!?!?! are you crazy?? yes
he doesn’t waste time getting blunt with you at all either.
once he goes into azuchi as a merchant, he silently observes you talking to sasuke for a bit. what’s with your weird language?? and crude humor???? never in his life has he met someone in your age act like that wtf
even so, he still operates on the basis of ‘‘if sasuke trusts you, i trust you’’, no matter how utterly concerned you make him feel
you have a dirtier mind than him! unsurprisingly. along with everyone else, you often tease the poor soul, a nd you’d gladly tell him what the innuendoes mean ( 69, etc.) and maybe sprinkle in some gay jokes in there
and why do you keep mentioning this “bromance between him and sasuke” ?? what us,,, a bromance????? and why is sasuke in it??
he takes you out to teahouses to eat chestnut dumplings and other desserts with you. you always seem to target the one he doesn’t like the most and have a bit of banter
your relationship is built on banter but what’s different rlly
he treats you much more maturely than other people your age. as in, he doesn’t pull back his punches in words most of the time. you don’t seem to around him also, it looks like.
and, he’s also very protective of you. he regards you as his little sibling, as rat as you may be. and he does care about you—he might just be a bit unwilling to say it
—yoshimoto:
you think he’s very chill, if a bit unique but who were you to judge. and he is, if you ever meet him in echigo or even azuchi
his big liking to art and something of apathy to people is osmething you can respect. there’s something about that kind of Vibe that you find oddly a mood.
and oh boy oh boy you wasted no time pulling up your phone and showing images of what art is in the future. whether it’d be a screenshot of anime, fanart, aesthetic-like ones, palette-themed—the whole shabang.
and, somehow, you were left ranting to him about how some artists in the future get it so shitty for theft, reposting, not crediting, the list goes on (please be a decent human being to artist, sincerely the author) and he can’t help but just listen in silence and kind of thinking about how you’re so passionate about the Struggles of artists. and it isn’t something he sees often in the sengoku era—where war rules most things.
and he does find art from the modern times interesting, how they’re so different and vast in styles. and not only that, it’s not like the future only has one major style like then, each hand can draw such different pictures and still have beauty in each. he appreciates and admires that.
and he does tell you his thoughts ^ while you give your own insight. it’s so fascinating to see someone like you having strong opinions on this.
because, well, rn art is a big thing in our lives as we’re stuck inside. a part of entertainment is looking at any media of art—and he finds his view of art and yours quite the same. you two came from a time of turmoil (one moreso than the other) but still think art isn’t exactly irrelevant just because it isn’t a cure to diseases or the Ultimate Weapon.
you had to Surgically Remove him from your phone so you can use it and to stop him from draining your battery looking at the art
and he often drags you out to town and admire pieces when you’re holing yourself in too much. your comments are always unknown to him, “radical”, “that’s one i can vibe with ngl”, and the list goes on.
and you occasionally call him pretty boy as a compliment rlly
—kennyo:
when you first saw him at honno-ji, and he won’t forget the one (1) line you gave him, all you said to his warning of ooo spooky demons was, “that’s lit fam gtg tho”
and that alone was enough to stun him for a few seconds
honestly you told the others of your meeting with kennyo before they told you it could be kennyo. just a throaway line of “oh yeah there was this dude with a scar across his face.” / “,,, ,....that’s kennyo. he’s really dangerous actually—” / “oh, poggers”
you’re probably kind of half the reason the oda forces found who dun it.
and it was an eye for an eye, kennyo himself found out that you were their child chatelaine, and very close to the others. as per his villain-schedule, he kidnaps you .
he laments about how “such a pure soul such as yours is not to be stained by the demon’s hands”
oh how Wrong he was.
you were the definition of the opposite of pure. and you seemed unfazed, which surprised kennyo but shrugged it off. he was willing to face you screaming and panicking, along with shouldering the sin of doing the deed. but instead, he was met with a raised eyebrow and, “this is unexpected and probably not welcomed but what am i doing here.”
he was stunned for a moment before explaining what he can.
“......... fuck.”
he cringed ever so slightly at your curse. but your attention seems to stray so quickly off of the fact that you were bounded and helpless, to the fact that you have the man doing unspeakable things to civilians and you absolutely don’t approve.
throwing your common sense to maybe be civilized, you went off on a rant of how human rights and how to not be an ass to him. all he could do was just listened, shocked to even cut you off.
when he did, he gave the whole ‘unsaved demon’ shtick, and you weren’t taking that kinda shit. he believed he was truly unsaved—you knew that. but that doesn’t make it okay.
eventually, he left you with a cold end of the conversation.
he admires your spirit in a way—but with what he’s experienced,,, it’s a bit of unreachable for him.
if at any point you saw the soft side of his with animals, you just gaped at him for a split second and whispered, “the gap moe is strong with this one.”
also old man died inside when you said that you’d fight god, along with many things.
all in all, to him, you’re insufferable. but weirdly,, fascinating.
you’ve totally ok boomer’d him once cause he rlly looks old
—motonari:
,,. if your speech to kennyo was bad, he’s going to rant hell.
motonari already knew you were interesting even when his men just spied on you. your behavior, so brash and impulsive, is going to be so fun to have, he thinks.
through some planning to stir up more chaos, he kidnaps you and brings you unto his ship. same as kennyo, you showed no clear sign of surprise, and that’s when he decided you were either used to this in any way, or a fool. both answers, he liked.
you’re kind of really confused on why he’s doing what he’d doing. “i get it, i like to stir up chaos myself but it’s harmless,, most of it—but not until the people are in danger, bitch.”
and by that line, motonari leans towards you with a deadly smirk, “now, i can bite, ‘kay kid? you don’t wanna be in the receiving end... do you?”
“do it, coward.”
and before he could let out even a wheeze of laughter, you continued on on a lecture of, again, not being a dick and letting people live their life in peace. and much less all of this damage, for what? chaos?? yeah you wanted to see the world burn but it wasn’t literally.
however, his patience was running thin. he shuts you up forcefully, and leaves.
even so, after a cooldown period, he still talks to you (,,,, well, that’s kind of a generous term) because, right he was, you were so fun in his eyes.
an interesting observation he made,,, was that you picked up on his big dislike of physical contact. and he’d think with how annoying you were at times, that you’d weaponize it. but you didn’t—in fact, you kept your space (not that you were planning to get close) and respected his boundaries.
he thinks you a bit of peculiar for that decision, some wary, and perhaps naive.
one of the days—the more dangerous ones—he was planning to take you to the oda as bait or something. and you weren’t taking it like that. two days before arrival, a storm racked up. you stood upon the edge of the ship with the rest of the crew watching you like you were a madman.
“the oda won’t want me if i’m dead, would they now?”
motonari stands in his composure, guffawing, “all i need is to make sure they believe you’re alive, kid.”
a smile that showed absolutely no fear and 1000 percent spite spread in your face, “not unless i decimate my own body until all the trail left is my blood. the only one who gets to do that shit to me, is me.”
finally, a look of wavering shows in his face.
you were saved last minute,, and the rest is history.
#ikemen sengoku#cybird ikemen#ikesen#ikesen kenshin#ikesen shingen#ikesen sasuke#ikesen yukimura#ikesen yoshimoto#ikesen kennyo#ikesen motonari#ikesen uesugi takeda#*writing#gen z mc#god i hope my Lack of Ability isn't shown in how other characters are written longer than others#and how i might've badly Fucked up their characters#i've done like.. 3 routes and that knowledge is all i have#stans pls don't @ me#pretty sure i had more i wanted to add here but#aha brain's memory go brrrrrrrr
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<youtube>"https://www.youtube.com/embed/V_gQ6n1mcZA"</youtube>
<h1>Why did the iPod go out of fashion?</h1>
This video very aptly explains why Apple’s iPod was the single greatest music listening experience that we’ve experienced: you can plug into distraction-free music, wherever you go.
So why did it die?
When the iPod touch came out, it quickly replaced its internet free predecessors. We had a shiny new gadget, we wanted it. We wanted all of the functionality we could muster, crammed into one device. But do consumers always know best? Given the choice to switch back to an iPod Nano, I would take it.
<h2>I may be crazy, but give me a Nano</h2>
I’ll be the first to admit that I love Spotify. The recommendations and personalisation are unprecedented and make the listening experience incredibly seamless. In an age without radio, Spotify is the saviour we need to discover new music and support small artists. But you have to ask yourself, how often are you truly disconnected from your phone?
For me, I’ll never be further than 1 AirPod connectivity radius from my phone. If someone wants to reach me, they can. I’ve been conditioned to answer calls, texts, and emails immediately, no matter the time or day. I wholeheartedly believe that this is to do with the fact that everyone is connected. You can be sure – to some level of certainty – that the person you’re texting will see the message within 5 minutes. Is it rude to respond later? No. Will you feel guilty for not responding straight away? Yes.
This has a huge impact on social development and mental health. If you grow up believing that you must be at the beck and call of anyone – even strangers – on the other side of your phone, it will undoubtedly translate into real life. Gen Z is famous for simultaneously being aggressive and fearless activists while being terrified to raise simple concerns about a meal to their waiter. We have been conditioned to put ourselves last. If we were to break the chain of absurd interconnectedness and relieve the expectations of always being available, we would have a much better chance of forgiving ourselves for taking a moment to focus on us.
<h2>But how could the Nano succeed?</h2>
The solution is two-fold: change the marketing strategy, and increase functionality.
As I write this, I realise that now might be the time for Spotify to enter the game of audio devices. What the consumers love is the ability to stream & discover music, audiobooks, and podcasts, with pseudo-unlimited storage.
<h3>Marketing</h3>
There are two distinct target audiences for this device: Boomers & Zoomers. Okay, I actually mean (Boomers + Gen X) & Zoomers, but it sounded cooler the first way.
In my experience, Gen X & Boomers enjoy clean and simple tech. They want to listen to their music. That’s it. Targeting towards them would look like nostalgia, simplicity, and discovery. Keep the experience similar to what they’ve had before but play up the disconnectedness.
These generations are generally late-adopters who rely on the recommendations of their (grand)children. That’s where the Gen Z come to play.
Gen Z want simple. They want retro. They want to care about their mental health and the wellbeing of others. Give them the option to jump back in time to an mp3 player that will allow them to be completely disconnected. Listen to your music without the fear of getting a call or text. Play up the long-term goal of releaving the pressure to be on standby every second of every day. Open up discussions around the benefit this could provide & let them recognise these expectations within themselves. Your Gen Z will be your early-adopters, and eventually influence the Gen X & Boomers.
<h3>Hardware</h3>
Design is next; designing an updated, successful mp3 device will be tough. Perhaps seperated mp3 players are cyclical with the fashion. Regardless, fashion has brought us bumbags and handbags for all genders. Now more than ever, we don’t care about the number or size of devices we’re carrying around.
The physical device will need to be sustainably produced. Gen Z want to reduce waste and ensure fair trading and construction processes. Give an insight into how the devices are made. Employ underprivileged or underserved communities for good wages. These devices will be more expensive, but in the climate we live in, it’s necessary.
<h3>Software</h3>
Functionality should be at a minimum, but equatable to a Spotify or Apple Music app on your smartphone. This device can be supremely optimised for audio playback and discovery. Here’s my vision:
Load time is next to nothing. We cache not only the songs that the user generally listens to, but also the songs that we think the user might want to listen to. We need to find an optimal starting point (what song/playlist we expect the user to listen to first) and press the user to start there. This will allow us to deliver the super-low latency experience almost every time.
We optimise the cache based on the listening habits of the user. If this user historically listens to the same song/s on repeat, we use an LSU (least recently used) cache. This will delete the least recently used files and allow us to constantly keep in memory the songs that we believe the user will want to access in the near-term future. Similarly, if a user generally listens to entire playlists, we use a MRU (most recently used) cache which will bias towards discarding the most recently listend to music.
Extrapolating listening habits to premptively load and cache songs will be another huge part of a successful stand-alone mp3 device. Imagine a device that would allow you to continue on your Taylor Swift deepdive while you’re stuck in the NYC subway for 30 minutes. This would be revolutionary to oh-so-many New Yorkers who currently need to make sure all of their audio is downloaded prior to subway trips.
We can use an exploratory method to determine the current listening path of the user. If you imagine a tree data structure and we’re traversing using an A* algorithm. The head node is the current song, and we generate its children based on historic listening habits of the user, along with those of the wider listening community. If I’m listening to Baby by Justin Bieber (Ft. Ludacris), it’s pretty likely that my next song will either be: old school JB, newer JB, other nostalgic songs from the late 2000s, or back to my normal listening habits. With each additional song that I make a decision on (ie. listen to or skip), we become more certain about what my next choice will be. By doing this, and expanding the cache in an A* kind of way, we can try to keep all songs of interest in memory, all the time.
We need Spotify for one main reason: data. This optimised caching system will only work if we have incredible amounts of data. To get this data, we need trust, time, and good data storage and modelling practices. Starting as a new company trying to gather this data would either be incredibly expensive, or incredibly time consuming.
All I can say is, let’s do it!!
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@sinunamor IT IS WRITTEN
Sorry for the heckin long wait ;^; here it is! Ernest Growing Up Part 3/3! (For now~)
(Ernest curses a lot and it’s a little sad at the beginning, otherwise it’s G)
It isn't working.
In spite of everything, Ernest came out of college doing kind of okay. He had an alright resume, a little pocket of savings, some furniture. Better than some kids he sat next to at graduation, for sure. He gets that coveted first apartment to himself- literally a room and a bathroom. The water pressure is like a dog lifting its leg and peeing on him and the neighbours are obnoxious, but it was his. He was paying rent! Utilities! Insurance, even! Life was looking up! Was.
He stayed in the city he went to school in, With his Pop's new condo a half hour away, it didn't feel so far. They'd have dinner all the time. Pop would give him tips on places to go and things to see. At one point, he says he wouldn't have moved here if he didn't know Ernest was staying. Ernest didn't have a great answer for that, tongue sudden;y stuck. They get froyo anyway.
His shit job became two shit jobs and then one again, then two, then three very briefly, then one with occasional paid-in-cash online ads stuff. Maybe illegal? Only in a tax law way, so whatever. He busts his ass- well, some of the time. Sometimes he half-asses it and gets paid anyway, other times he gets fired, depends on the place. What it comes down to is that he never has enough money. All the Gen Z-targeted personal finance advice blogs are shit, too. “Get a roommate!” For where? The cupboard under his kitchen sink?
Actually, in his postal code, someone might take it. But they'd be just as broke as him.
Even now, he feels spoiled and pathetic. Plenty of people just had to make do, they didn't have a Dad to send cheques in the mail, a stepdad to order them groceries online, a Pop to full-on spot them rent money. He tries and tries to make it work and he /can't./
Finally, he picks up the phone. “Dad?”
“Ernest? What's the matter? Is everything-”
“Can I come home?” With his stuff, he means, with the furniture he can't use anymore and his rejected debit card and-
Hugo makes this little noise, a very parental click of concern that sticks right in his chest. “Of course, always.”
Lucien drives him because he's been working solely off his laptop and following Pablo around the East Coast. Ernest isn't a hundred percent on what he does, but it's enough to pay for a rental van and a premium streaming account so commercials don't interrupt their drawn-out silence on the way back North to Maple Bay.
“Do you need to be an asshole about this? I said I was sorry, okay? I'll pay you back as soon as I get money, /god./”
“All I asked,” Lucien drawls, smartass as always. “Is if you wanted me to buy you a bagel. So I'll just buy your least favourite one and we'll carry the fuck on, shall we?”
Ernest officially hates everything forever, but mostly himself.
Dad and Damien welcome them home with big, awkward hugs and lots of understanding when he wants to go to bed straightaway and they left his room the way it was and /fuck/-
Pics or it didn't happen, as the young adults say. If no one sees him crying and hugging his teddy in his mid-twenties, it never took place.
His dignity drops a few more points the next day when he has to beg and plead with his Dad not to tell Pop.
“What if he goes to your place and you're not there?” Hugo insists, hands soapy from washing the dishes. “He'll be so worried!”
“He always calls or texts first, always,” Ernest thrusts another dried plate into the cupboard and balls his fists together. “I'm not gonna pretend forever, honest. /Please/, Dad, just a few more days, that's all I'm asking. It's my thing to tell him, anyway!”
“Okay, okay,” Hugo holds his hands up in a peacemaking gesture. He tucks some overgrown hair behind his ear- shit, he's gone even more grey. His dads are going grey and he can't afford his own Netflips account. “I won't tell him, but if he calls and asks, I'm not going to lie. Alright?”
“Fair enough,” Ernest sighs through his nose, tucking the cutlery away in brooding silence. Goddammit, he's too old to brood. This sucks.
Hugo watches him a minute before draining the sink. “Have you heard from Carmensita? She's back in town, you two should meet for coffee or something. Get your mind off things.”
Ernest swings his head around, barely listening to the second half of the sentence. “She's back already? I know she was talking about it, but- yeah. I'll text her.”
He does, and they meet up, later that day because his schedule is open indefinitely. He waves to River and Crish, doing something with multiple types of sportsballs in the Cahn family driveway and thankfully too focused to do more than wave back. Carmensita comes strolling out of Mat's house in a flower-print romper and jogs up the sidewalk to him and he's never, ever been so happy to see someone.
Except that time he got lost at Disney World, but we don't talk about that.
“There's my favourite human!” Ernest laughs as she hops up to hug him. He insists he never got taller, she got shorter, but she still gives the greatest hugs. “No more braids, huh? That's a big change.”
Carmensita giggles and teases her fingers through her mohawk, her sides shaved down to thatches of brown fuzz. “I just got it done, do you like it? It's pretty different, for me at least.”
“I love it,” Ernest scratches one side of her undercut until she playfully bats his hand away. “Nah, it suits you. Makes you look cool and smart, like you're gonna mess somebody up but with your know-how instead of your fists.”
“Overly specific, but I'll take it.” Carmensita grins, a flash of snarky white and he feels like he can stand up straighter. They wave again at the over-active River on their way across the cul-de-sac, and 'Sita leans in to him, talking behind her hand. “You heard about Ashley and Mary, right?”
“Yeah, I sure did.” Ernest glances across the street, almost feeling eyes on him from Mary's house. Which used to be Julian's house, but then Julian and Damien talked and agreed to sell it to Mary shortly after her divorce so she could get out of Damien's spare bedroom and have enough space that custody would be a non-issue. Julian was totally cool with it, because he was practically moved in with Mat anyway and Amanda was fully settled into New York- “God, this neighbourhood is weird.”
“Something in the groundwater, I think,” Carmensita laughs, shaking her head. “Craig's the real deal though. He's legit totally cool with it. I was here in time for the first summer BBQ and I expected, y'know, some awkwardness.”
“Folks around here save all the awkwardness for their kids,” Ernest drawl to make her laugh again. It's nearly sticky outside, but he refuses to remove his sweater. He goes bare-armed for exactly two months a year, tans up real nice, and goes right back into his cotton cocoons of happiness. “So how's life n'stuff?”
“Life n'stuff is pretty good. I've got all my boxes unpacked in less than two months, so that's my record.” She slips off her glasses to polish them on her shirt. “I'll show you my place when we get there, I'm teaching piano lessons out of my living room right now, and- oh! You know what tonight is, right? Are you busy?”
Ernest shakes his head to both, he's been too depressed to check social media and he definitely isn't busy. “What's tonight?”
Carmensita grins wide and imitates an airhorn to punctuate her words. “Open mic night! Woo woo woo!”
It's a little different to watch from the audience with everyone else. The Cahn twins are working part-time at the Spoon now and they're the ones doing the backstage stuff. Lucien drives into town for it, Pablo's tour wrapping up with 'boring business shit' that he'd apparently rather skip. The three of them claim a corner table with high stools and enjoy the quirky parade.
His dad was right, it is nice to forget about his bullshit for a while. He recognizes kids he used to see racing around the playground strumming guitars and nervously messing up their lyrics. Back then he would have made fun of them, and maybe he does chuckle a little, but he gives them credit. He hasn't been on a stage in- oof, at least a year. Discounting karaoke, of course. He wonders what Disaster Master Quinn is up to these days.
The night ends, early enough for all the teens to go to bed, with a pretty tight Sunstroke Project cover on theramin. There is much clapping and whooping and thanking before everyone starts clearing out. Carmensita chugs the rest of her coffee, discreetly wiping her mouth on her sleeve. “Alright, let's pay our tabs and head upstairs. Who's feeling Mario Party?”
“You know I am,” Lucien smirks as they gather their things. “None of the car ones though, I hate that shit.”
Ernest loses the thread of the conversation because there's a hiss of static in his ears. He can't pay his tab. His chequing account is a negative number and he can't remember if their register takes credit or not but that's not an option either. He's too broke. To pay for a goddamn /tea./ God, why does he only clue into shit when it's too late?
The thought of asking them to pay makes him wanna puke, so he performs the maneuver that saved him from many a terrible college party: the Irish Goodbye.
The crowd makes it easy to slip away. He lopes through the parking lot and heads into the undeveloped no-man's land behind the softball field. He shuts off his phone, which any rational instinct would encourage him not to do. He's gonna take the long, long way home and- then what? Isn't that just the biggest fucking question of his life- and then what, you witless idiot?
The static does not stop as he hurries through the warm summer air, eventually cutting across the street and walking down the bay. His pulse is really high for no friggin' reason and he probably couldn't type a text if he needed to- wait, is this a panic attack? No, come on. He's too old to get on any of his dads' benefits. He can't be doing this. He can't, he can't-
A car drives up slowly beside him, and he has a split-second of facing his death before the window rolls down to reveal two annoyed, very familiar faces. “You live in my Dad's house, what the hell was your long-term plan with this?”
“Look, I'm sorry, I couldn't pay and I-” Ernest rakes a hand through his hair, pulling on his scalp. “I'm sorry I'm such a fuck-up, okay? I shouldn't have come out tonight, I'm no good to be around right now.”
Carmensita runs her tongue over her bottom lip. “You ditched us over a four-ninety-seven tab?”
“I called it.”
She scowls, undoes her seatbelt, and clambers out of the passenger door, stomping around to his side. “Give me your face, right now. C'mere-”
Ernest hunches his shoulders so she can reach, mostly out of confusion. She takes his cheeks in her warm hands and paps them with each word, like she's trying to wake up a drunk guy in a movie. “We're not hanging out with your wallet! We want to hang out with /you,/ if you'll stop! Being! Such! A! Dumbass!”
“Can you stop smacking my face?”
“Maybe,” Carmensita drops her hands after two more, crossing her arms. “Seriously though, not cool. What's gotten into you?”
“Dude, I forgot that I couldn't afford to buy a bagel, like how fucked am I?” Ernest scrubs his face, palms burning with his need for a shave. “Everything's so messed up right now. I feel like a complete waste of space.”
“Again with this?” Lucien makes an irritated noise from the car, leaning out the window. “Like you're the only one who's ever been broke. How much money do you think I had after college?”
“Why do you think I'm living over my dad's shop?” Carmensita tilts her head at him. “I know you're upset, but you're not on your own, for god's sake. I would have bought you that bagel anyway, you didn't need to freak out.”
“Guhhhh,” Ernest pushes the heel of one palm against his eye. “I'm sorry I'm such an idiot. I can barely fuckin' think right now.”
“Do you wanna go home or do you wanna play video games with us?” Lucien asks, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. “No judgment either way. But maybe decide quick, before some cops come by and get all up in our business.”
Ernest would really like to bury himself in all of his blankets but, in the interest of not continuing to screw up his personal relationships, he picks the right choice. “Video games, please.”
They collectively kick the CPU's ass at getting stars and Carmensita hugs him before he leaves, Lucien's taillights in the distance. “You're not a waste of space, okay? It'll get better, just don't let things get this bad again.”
He almost misses being the one to cheer her up. It's a shitty thing to miss, but at least he didn't go home feeling all squashed on the inside.
Ernest gets up the guts to call his Pop a few days later. He's totally cool about it, even though he sunk how much into that one room. Somehow that makes Ernest feel worse.
“Trust me, my credit in my early twenties was a /mess,/ I was really stupid with my money. It was bad. Like, scary bad. Your gramps flipped his lid when he saw my pile of bills on the table.”
“Mine's a mess too,” Ernest mumbles, knees folded up to his chest as he leans back against his headboard.
“Yeah, but it's more fixable than it looks. It'll just take time. If you owned a car or something that would be kinda rough, but hey, I turned it around, didn't I? Before I met your dad too, no way would he have dated pre-grad school me. Nuh-uh,” Pop laughs, a hiss-crack in his ear because he does this weird almost-silent laugh that Ernest makes fun of constantly. “Tell you what, I'll pay off your card so you're not getting those assholes calling you every day. Then you can focus on finding a job, I heard they have a youth program you'd still-”
“I'm sorry,” Ernest manages to wobble out, a big lump in his throat as the tears burn.
“What?” Pop's voice turns all anxious and concerned, which hurts even worse. “Hey, kiddo, it's alright. You don't have to be sorry. I know you were trying your best, it's really tough when you're starting out alone-”
“I'm so sorry,” Ernest hiccups, covering his face with his hand as he snots. “I can't pay you back and I probably never will and I'm gonna have to put Dad in a nursing home with cockroaches because they just slashed teacher pensions again and everything is so fucked /forever./”
“Ernest, Ernest, listen to me,” Pop's voice strains against the weak receiver of his phone. “Nothing is fucked, okay? No one's mad at you. We'll fix this, I promise. Ernest?”
It's a rough month, for sure. Pop comes to visit. Him and Dad have been really good at not-bitching-at-each-other since he crossed that adulthood threshold. Maybe it was child support that made them fight after all. Pop used to get these little digs into dad, telling him to quit and go into something with a future. Maybe him and money are just cursed or something.
He loses it again when they hug him at the same time. He's only gotten those at graduations and he's all out of those now. “We would do anything and everything for you, do you hear me?” Dad is halfway out of his lawn chair, the three of them on the back porch, having borrowed a little barbecue from Brian. “I'd rather have you here than starving in some apartment somewhere. Everything's going to be fine, mijo. I promise.”
“I'll bring you down for a visit whenever you want.” Pop assures him as he's leaving, hugging him again. It's so weird that he's taller than him now. “If you want to move, I'll help. But honestly, you might be better off here for a bit. Rent is going crazy in the city and it's not worth it.”
“How does a couple hours' drive make such a huge difference?” Ernest sniffs, shuffling in the driveway.
“I mean, I could explain but it's really boring.” He smiles and ruffles his hair. “You'll be alright, kiddo. Don't worry so much, okay?” Easier said than done, but it's well-meant. He accepts it.
He does qualify for extra help at the employment place, but unfortunately he has a humanities degree, which means no marketable skills. Which means part-time at the small bougie grocery store downtown, which is in fact a hell of a lot better than nothing.
“Excuse me.” An older woman clutching a plastic handbag strolls up to him while he's stocking shelves. “Do you have any of those sweet honey mustards?”
“No ma'am, sorry. We ran out.”
She narrows her beady eyes at him. “Why?”
Most of the time.
Carmensita's doing pretty well for herself between the Coffee Spoon and her piano lessons. Not move-into-her-own-place good, but she's got a nice little loft space over the shop. Sick prints up all over the walls, those fairy lights she's always liked, her keyboard set up beside her computer desk all tidy for when the kids come by. Ernest spends his off-hours googling potential side-hustles and making music for the first time in a while.
“-Practically everybody's stressed, yes!” Ernest snaps his fingers with one hand and runs his beats with the other. “But they press through the mess, bounce cheques, and wonder what's next!”
“In the heights! I buy my coffee and I go,” Carmensita sings clear as anything, laying into her keys. “Set my sights on only what I need to know...”
“Girl, how'd you get so good at that? Damn,” Ernest shakes his head after they stop recording. “It's like Mandy Gonzalez was right here.”
“Vocal coaching, son!” Carmensita grins, sticking out her thumb and pinky finger and twisting her wrist. “Taught me how to sing from the diaphraaaaaaagm.”
Ernest cracks up at the low note she hits, spinning around in her chair and staring at the plastic glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to the ceiling. “Hey, do you ever feel bad for being happy? Like, you're not supposed to be, or something?”
“Hell yeah, all the time,” Carmensita stretches, laying out on her secondhand piano bench and popping her back. “Like if I'm having a good day I get thinking, 'oh but if I was at X point, I could be doing Y.' I think I'm scared I'll get complacent or something.”
“Yeah,” Ernest sits up, catching his feet on the carpet. “But like, I don't know how long our whole generation's gonna be stuck like this. So if we can't enjoy this...”
“Oof, heavy stuff.” Carmensita swats at the bag of mini Oreos until he passes it to her, grabbing a handful himself. “This isn't so bad though. Who knows, maybe we'll look back with nostalgia goggles and miss it.”
“Yeah.” He settles back in the chair, toying with the music program on his aging laptop. “Maybe.”
Carmensita sits up, tugging her off-the-shoulder t-shirt back down where it had ridden up on her belly. “Wanna eat pot brownies and watch Bebop again?”
Ernest scoffs. “Is that even a question?”
By the time Pablo and Lucien come down for Thanksgiving Part One (there's always cliffhanger holidays with divorced parents, but it's not so bad anymore, it's just a part of it), his life has a routine. He's too grown to resent 'being another cog in the machine' in any significant way. Predictable income and free time is a blessing and a half and he's not giving it up unless he works his way up to something real good. Which will take time, and energy, and so, so much luck.
But right now he's got a favourite lunch and does his share of the chores (cleaning Damien's weird house only seems daunting, it just takes a lot of furniture polish and a big-ass feather duster). He sees his Pop as often as he can with him jetting all over the continent, texting when they're in different time zones and laughing about stupid coworker stories (his Pop's are more maddening, apparently higher salaries don't strain out the truly incompetent, somehow that's comforting, too).
He can pay for Coffee Spoon bagels now, coming to Carmensita's aid during lulls in her shifts. Both their schedules are pretty regular, so they exchange barely a message or two before coming to see each other at certain points in the week. With what pocket money they do have, they get concert tickets once or twice, go ice skating, and buy fries at the mall, wandering around the stores after dark and trying to pick out new versions of themselves. Mostly they just go home with small things they don't need and pricey chocolate bars they split. When she gets wicked cramps, he hits her up with aspirin and movies they've seen ten times. When he can't get out of bed, she sends him memes and cute dog videos.
Dad and Damien are gross as per usual, but they're also way less nosy than they used to be. It's weird to just take off for the day or night without any further questions. Though coming back is a different story.
“I got your text,” Hugo leans out of the study (yes, they have one, of course they do) when he hears Ernest's sock feet shuffling up the hallway. “What happened?”
“I don't know,” Ernest shrugs, unbuttoning his uniform shirt. “A sewer main burst while they were working on the parking lot. The fire department scooted everyone out of there pretty quick, it smelled awful. I had better get paid for the full shift.”
“You have a right to, you weren't the one driving the backhoe.” His dad grins, re-shelving a book before shutting the door. “On the bright side, unexpected free time is always a bonus.”
“It sure is, and I'm gonna use it to take a well-deserved nap.”
“Oh.” A beat while he fixes his expression. “Okay, I'll record that documentary for you.”
Ernest turns, hand on the ornate doorframe. “Is that on today?” Hugo's eager nod goes right between his ribs and he smiles. “Nah, I'll watch it with you. Naps mess up my sleep schedule anyway, make me all cranky in the morning.”
“As opposed to any other morning?”
“Rude,” he snorts while his dad chuckles. “I'll be down in a minute, okay? Just gotta get changed and stuff.”
“Okay.” Not five minutes into changing and checking his email, he gets a text.
HV: You want to order in for dinner? Two-for-one at the pizza place
HV: We can get those chicken bite things, I have a coupon :)
Ernest laughs, oddly reminded of coming home to Duchess after high school sleepovers. He sends a quick 'sure dad,' and takes some of his recycling down. They spend the evening in their boxers on the couch in the den, three of the four hairless cats Damien had adopted when they came through the shelter (he didn't last long post-Duchess once he had a taste of pet ownership) snuggled up beside and on top of them. It's not their first or last night spent this way.
He does quietly scream to the heavens at the mere suggestion of a girlfriend. “I'm a cashier- oh, sorry, 'customer service associate.' All I've got to offer someone right now is pocket lint and my winning personality.”
“But that is precisely what you should be offering in a relationship!” Damien insists, winding black tinsel up the staircase while Ernest does the same on the other side. “If wealth was a prerequisite, only the rich would fall in love.”
“I don't need to be rich, but I do need a little something to put in my dating profile, you know?” He's already down a few pegs courtesy of his 'no sex for me please' sexuality, but he won't bring that up now. Tis the season, and all that.
“You have much to include! You are in possession of many fine qualities,” Damien smiles at him, looking less vampire and more nerd with his hair up in a bun and his glasses on. His outfit is like Dickens and Mary Shelley had a weird baby, though. “Your father and I just think it would be nice if you had someone special in your life, that's all. We're not pressuring you to bring someone home for the holidays.”
“Well, that's appreciated,” Ernest ties off the tinsel, zipping up his hoodie again. What did thermostats ever do to fathers, anyway? “I'm just kind focusing on me right now. I'll get in a relationship when I'm in a better spot.”
“Ah, that is fair,” Damien grabs another handful of tinsel for the top banisters. “But love can happen upon you when you least expect it. Such was the case for me both times.”
Ernest had never decided if Damien getting sappy about his dead husband or his very-alive husband who is also Ernest's dad was worse, they might tie for first place.
EHV: Plz never let me become this gross n sentimental when I'm old plz
LB: You cry at Hamilton now and you've seen it so many fing times
EHV: ELIZA DESERVED BETTER GDI DON'T START W ME
CS: I WILL CRY AT ITS QUIET UPTOWN UNTIL THE DAY I DIE FIGHT ME SCRUB
EHV: YEAH THAT'S RIGHT
LB: Oh ffs I forgot this was the groupchat
Speaking of awkward sad times, this year's holidays are busy and bright and not as rushed as last year where he could barely visit anyone for more than a couple hours, but the same anniversary comes around. He's celebrating a third Christmas up at Damien's parents place over New Year's weekend, laughing it up while everyone is maybe too drunk, but he has a sixth sense when that text buzzes in.
CS: I wish missing someone didn't hurt so much :(
EHV: I know <3
CS: Dad's sad, but he's got Julian now
CS: I'm just by myself up in my old room, they're asleep already
EHV: Aw, shit. Do you want me to call you?
CS: No, you're with family. I'm fine
EHV: Everyone is tipsy and Dad is losing at trivial pursuit
CS: Okay then yes please <3
He makes his first appearance at open mic night in the cold and crisp new year. One technical glitch makes him nearly piss himself but it otherwise goes okay. Carmensita sings right after him, her dad on guitar and it's so frickin' good.
“God, you guys are so cool,” he says afterwards, spinning a bottle of Windex around his finger and taking Wild West-style aim at the glass in front of the baked goods.
“Glad I've still got it,” Mat grins, going back to counting the money. “You should do more of these, everyone was super into it. There's another place that does really good open mics out in the boonies, it's a cafe-arthouse thing.”
“You think so?” Ernest had immediately repressed all memory of his performance upon leaving the stage, it was a good coping technique.
“We should start a YouWatch channel!” Carmensita exclaims, as if for the first time, though she's been bugging him for weeks. “We'll do covers to get the subs, then post our own stuff! I bet we could get sponsors!”
“Mister Sella,” Ernest says very seriously. “Are you aware that your daughter is selling out to the man?”
'Sita hits him with a broom, but he does decide to take the leap. Not like starting a channel takes a lot of upfront capital investment, exactly. They do pool money for one good mic, and figure they'll work their way up if it turns out to be worth it. They pick songs from their early teens to indulge their own and others' guilty pleasure fix, and they do weird remixes of things that aren't songs, and he convinces Carmensita to do tag videos. It's fun, and some people like it. Not a ton, but hey, maybe someday.
They only complain on days they're not recording, not wanting to wreck their voices. This time they're slumped on Ernest's bed, him whinging continuously after his first attempt at online dating ended in utter failure, therefore he should give up and never try again, right? Less money on dating, more money to eventually adopt dogs?
“Ernest, I want you to try something.” Carmensita reaches over and covers his eyes, her voice only a little exasperated. “Envision what you want in a relationship. Dad taught me this, I used it to figure out where I wanted to go for college.”
“Okay. Does it work, or is it some hokey bullshit?”
“Quit being rude and humour me, dammit.”
“Alright, alright,” he laughs, feeling her well-manicured thumb jab his cheek. He wets his lips while he thinks for a moment. “Uh, I wanna be with someone who's funny and nice, fun to be around.”
“Okay, can we get a little more depth than that?”
“Give me a second here, woman,” he snorts. “I want- someone who's chill, who likes some of the stuff I like- not everything, but we gotta have stuff to do together, you know?” Carmensita hums. “I want- I really want someone I can build a future with. I don't wanna just play around, y'know? I want someone responsible- heh, maybe not too responsible. But someone I can trust, someone I can see myself having kids with.”
“Woah, you want kids-plural now?”
“Well not a whole bunch, but two would be nice. They can play with each other- anyway,” Ernest gulps, strangely caught up in the thought process. “I want someone who when I look at her- I just want all the good stuff in the world for her. She's going places and she's talented- I want someone who I really get, who gets me back. When people talk about marrying their best friend, that's- that's what I want. Someone who- accepts me, and we can be ourselves around each other, always.”
They're quiet a moment, Carmensita's hand still on his face. She takes it away slowly and smiles softly. “So, you want what you have with me, but with kissing?”
Ernest blanks for a solid thirty seconds before raising his finger. “Okay, first of all, when did you get so smooth?”
Carmensita laughs, loud and cute, sweeping some loose curls off her forehead and looking at him with these eyes- he's never seen her look at him like that until now. Or maybe he was just that clueless. “Is that really all you want to ask me?”
Ernest swallows, loud enough to hear it, sitting up a little straighter. “Can I- kiss you?”
“I don't know, can you?”
He groans outright, dropping his head on her shoulder while she giggles. “One of these days, 'Sita, one of these days.”
She smells really nice this close, maybe it's her shampoo? It's damn good, whatever it is. Her hands end up on his shoulders, not pressing, just holding him. He lifts his head and god, that little moment of eye contact before they both lean forward-
First kisses are not usually perfect, but he's willing to call this one close enough. She's warm and soft beneath his lips. His arms slip around her waist and it's like she was made to fit against him. He outright sighs when they part, kissing her nose just to hear her laugh again.
“Are you-” He can't quite find his words right now, his mind cycling through all the new and so very nice stimuli his senses are taking in. Carmensita's always been beautiful to him but he never thought, never let himself- “Do you- are you sure you wanna do this? I can't- I really like you, but I don't think I'll ever be able to do the physical stuff. You deserve-”
She presses a finger to his lips and he silences himself immediately, distracted by the light of her eyes. “There's nothing I want that online shopping with discreet shipping can't provide. None of that 'you deserve better' crap. I want you, if you want me back, then we should keep kissing and see where it takes us.”
Ernest works his jaw for a few moments, then nods. “Yeah, I can get behind that train of thought.”
Carmensita's laugh as he pulls her in for more smooches is the sweetest sound he's ever heard.
They end up cuddling up and falling asleep together- hahaha an asexual sleeping with someone on the first date, hahaha, puns and stuff -a bonus of neither of them having morning shifts the next day and Carmensita not having anyone expecting her back at home. He wakes up before she does, spooned up behind her, all their clothes rumpled, the blankets cocooned around them. He kisses the nape of her neck and sighs. He feels content, for the first time in a while.
The softest of knocks precedes the door creaking open. “Hey, Ernest, do you want- /oh/.”
The door shuts quickly, rousing Carmensita and making Ernest groan. “So much for keeping quiet about it.”
“Were we going to?” She yawns, sitting up and stretching. “Also, I'm bringing my silk pillowcases or we're only sleeping at my place. How do you live like this?”
“I dunno, I'm a mess.” He laughs and sits up, a tentative hand on her back. “I just- I'm scared. We've been friends for so long, I don't want to risk it going badly.”
“But if we don't risk it going badly, we also don't risk it going well.” She clumsily boops his nose, smiling dopily at him. “Guess which outcome I have my money on?”
“Girl, what money?” He laughs when she jabs him in the stomach. He leans in for a kiss after a moment, realizing that they can do that now, and smooches her cheek gladly. “So, if the Dads know, that means we're officially an 'us.'”
“We are.” She grins and kisses his cheek back. “I like being an us, it's pretty great so far.”
“It is.” He grins back, feeling like he can't stop. Shit, it's really happening. Is he in love? Is that an okay word to use after literally one very unexpected day? Probably not out loud.
He walks her downstairs, and they whisper-laugh a few walk-of-shame jokes before she heads out in her poofy pink coat, leaving him alone with the giddy feeling in his gut. In the dining room, Dad and Damien are doing maybe the worst acting job he's ever seen. “Are you two gonna make a big deal out of this?”
“Make a big deal out of what?” Damien inquires with convincing innocence, frying pan and spatula in hand.
“Yes, is there something we should make a big deal out of?” Hugo smiles, legitimately doing the newspaper crossword like he's a goddamn cartoon character.
Ernest sighs and drops into his chair, accepting several pancakes from Damien. “We literally just started- dating, I guess. No wedding bells, no grandbabies, nothing crazy yet, so please relax.”
“You know we're not like that.”
“Certainly, I'm not my mother.” Damien chuckles, almost unconsciously rubbing Hugo's robe-covered arm while they eat. So gross, but also goals.
“But, out of curiosity,” Hugo teasingly elbows him. “Did you kiss her yet?”
The dads laugh while Ernest howls. He'd text his Pop for backup, but he will get the exact same shit in different wording. He pulls out his phone and texts Lucien instead.
EHV: Hey Carmensita and I are dating just FYI
LB: About gd time, you've been heart eyes at her for literal years
CS: What
CS: Lucien why would you not tell me this
CS: I COULD HAVE SAVED SO MUCH TIME >:(
EHV: Oh shit group chat again
LB: Let's rename these things plz
EHV: Sorry babe <3
CS: Np hon ;*
LB: And here I am, third wheeling it again
EHV: You are basically married stfu
LB: That does not make this better
CS: Ladies ladies, you're both pretty
EHV: Sita knows whats uppppp
LB: Finishing BNHA this weekend y/n?
CS: Y, obvs
EHV: Also Y, I'm off at 7 don't watch ahead
LB: Don't walk so slow and we won't
EHV: Eat a dick
CS: G2g, love you guys
EHV: Love ya too
LB: <3
LB: Also, straaaaaaaaaaight
EHV: Fuckin really dude
LB: Someone has to
LB: Tell Dad I'm coming for dinner tonight
EHV: Will do, bye weeb
LB: Cya loser
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When Wish Fulfillment Fantasies Meet Reality: A Re-Examination of Twilight
**CW/TW: The following piece discusses dating violence with brief mentions to sexual assault and self-harm.**
This year, the last Fifty Shades movie finally came and went, and as its popularity slowly morphs into a bad memory for pop culture, I’m thinking again about the fiction’s effect on reality, particularly wish fulfillment fantasies, self-insert stories, etc etc.
This train of thought began with the Twilight series after watching Lindsay Ellis’s video essay, “Dear Stephenie Meyer,” where she revisits the hatred surrounding said franchise. While it’s definitely not without serious flaws, Twilight was not really as bad as people made it out to be. And most of the criticism was solely about millions of young girls and their moms liking a thing because, what a shock, our society tends to hate anything feminine. I was definitely one of those teenage girls who wanted nothing to do with Twilight, surprising no one probably. Even though I had enough plot summary from friends to pick up the actual problems of the story, I just had fun hating it for the sake of hating it and disassociating with anything feminine because I was neck-deep in my weeaboo phase.
Cut to about seven years later, I took a Vampires in Pop Culture class and Twilight (the first of the series) was on the reading list. With a more mature mind, I sat down, read it, and yeah, it really was not as bad as I thought. Yes, Bella’s too one-dimensional, Edward’s still pretty creepy, and the dialogue and prose is at best, ridiculous and at worst, stale. It knows its target audience is tweens and reads as such, which unfortunately doesn’t grip me as an adult. I gave up at the baseball scene cause I was ready to gouge my eyes out if I read one more description of the weather. And give credit where it’s due, the side characters have way more fascinating stories than Bella or Edward, and it’s a shame Meyer didn’t take a chance to further expand them instead. I couldn’t find much to be angry about with the first book, and I was honestly more bored than anything. But I also cannot deny the wish fulfillment fantasy driving the narrative which drew in a large audience all those years ago.
And wish fulfillment is fine. Self-insert is fine. Teenage girls are just figuring out what confidence is, and there is some reassurance in a fantasy where the totally out-of-league man of your dreams still finds you the most fascinating human being in the world and wants to give you all his undivided attention. Not every female lead needs to be a strong independent woman who don’t need no man. I still see people write self-insert fanfictions from time to time, and they’re very sweet and tender to imagine being loved by a favorite character. We actually consume these stories more than we like to admit.
Hell, one of my favorite guilty pleasure films is The Princess Diaries. In many ways, it hits the same notes as Twilight. It’s a pure wish fulfillment fantasy where the main girl is smart, but clumsy and awkward and just wants to be invisible. Yet she finds herself on a whirlwind journey of self-discovery where others find value in her, and she even falls in love with a boy who adores her regardless of how she perceives herself. Yet The Princess Diaries is such a popular chick flick among people my age. So why is something like The Princess Diaries fondly remembered as an integral part of a millenial/Gen Z childhood while Twilight is met with disdain and disgust?
The major differences boil down to the main female protagonists: Mia and Bella. While not an overly complex character, Mia has, well, a personality. Her journey is more personal of overcoming her social anxiety and realizing how much she can contribute to the world as a public figure if she just takes the leap of faith. Getting a romance in the end is just icing on the cake when she remembers who was there for her even when she was the awkward nerd and will love her regardless of appearance or social status. It’s cheesy and hokey as chick flicks do, but it’s a satisfying wish fulfillment fantasy where the protagonist is better off than where she started and what she was looking for was right there all along.
With Bella, I barely know who she is outside of her romantic interests. Sure, the books go into more detail of her intelligence and social anxiety, but it’s never seen in film. Her life completely revolves around her relationships to the point of obsession, but we never almost see what she’s like when not caught up in the supernatural love triangle. And unfortunately, it’s a problem which worsens with each sequel. The Twilight franchise frames romance as something Bella can’t live without to the point of shutting herself in for months when the Cullens leave in New Moon, refusing to talk to her friends and family, and getting night terrors. It’s intended to make you feel sorry for Bella, but her backwards priorities make her completely pathetic on how much of her life she misses because of some boy who didn’t hesitate to cut her from his life, and she was totally fine with him leaving if he didn’t turn her into a vampire.
Prioritizing unrequited love over your own well being is such an unhealthy idea to romanticize because there is far more to life than some dumb boy who won’t return your feelings. I saw my fair share of unsatisfying romances in young adulthood hanging on by a thread for some idealized love that’s never going to happen. Even though a break up is the simplest and most effective solution for both people to take care of themselves, they continue wasting their time being unhappy with each other and latching on to the rose-tinted view of how they first fell in love. I know some people don’t like the idea that you have to love yourself before someone else, but there’s still truth to the saying where you have to understand that being in a romantic relationship will not automatically fix all your problems and guarantee a happily ever after.
Aside from getting married and having a baby which almost kills her during pregnancy, Bella doesn’t grow as a character or develop any personality, and she just gets her happy ending anyway. The Volturi hint that Bella is special because she’s unaffected by vampire powers, but that detail is shuffled to the sidelines to get more of Jacob and Edward butting heads on who she’ll choose. Most of the story’s events are outside her control and she doesn’t explore further into what they mean about her being special, and even her turning into a vampire-- not even of her own volition, but as a last ditch attempt to save her while dying in childbirth-- doesn’t change that much about her except now she’s immortal and she can bang Edward without getting knocked unconscious again.
I know Twilight is commercial romantic fiction meant to go in one ear and out the other, but it’s still such a damn waste of great lore and build up with no pay off. And Bella is such a bore of a protagonist to follow the entire time even for a blank slate who is meant to be easily identifiable for teenage readers. Again, not every female character needs to wield a sword or be flawless at everything they do, but having an engaging arc is the simplest bare minimum when writing your story’s protagonist. But that got lost in drawn out weather descriptions and, of course, the unhealthiest romances in fiction.
In a 2013 interview with TIME about her book, The Host, Meyer says she never thinks much about if her protagonists are good role models because “it’s fiction... I don’t think you should be using fictional characters as role models.” To that, I strongly disagree and am rather surprised to hear from Meyer given the great battles of Team Edward vs Team Jacob as each of the films released in theaters. Granted, this is an old interview, and I don’t know how much her opinion changed, but it still irks me.
Whether you like to admit it or not-- especially on the wonderful world of Tumblr.com--, fiction affects our reality. It alters our perception on politics, race, gender, lifestyles, and yes, even romance. Especially as kids and teenagers, we can’t help but find role models to base our ever-changing identities on and look up to so we can be better people for ourselves and society. It’s the reason why so many people define themselves on what Hogwarts house they’re in, why Disney milks Star Wars as long as they can, and why black communities arranged trips for everyone to see Black Panther. And unfortunately, I can’t bring myself to say Twilight is completely harmless in how it portrays the romances.
Just type in any search engine about abusive relationships in Twilight, and you get millions upon millions of analyses on how Edward and Jacob check off as abusers. They’re controlling, aggressive, easy to become jealous, and lacking any notion of personal boundaries. However, one abuser often forgotten in this conversation is Bella, who is such a despicable, emotional manipulator.
Remember how ridiculously depressed she gets in New Moon when Edward leaves? Well, she starts seeing visions of Edward checking in on her whenever she seems to be in danger. And she gets the bright idea to keep purposefully doing so-- including hanging out with shady gang members, crashing a motorcycle and jumping off a cliff-- just to get his attention and hopefully coax him to return to Forks. I’m surprised she didn’t just straight up say “If you leave me, I’ll kill myself” because it’s such textbook gaslighting. And when Edward is led to believe Bella died, then he attempts suicide! And she’s seriously surprised he would given how much needless self-harm she did over the months? What else did you think was going to happen?! I can’t even laugh at some of the badness of New Moon because Bella’s toxic behavior leaves such a sour taste in my mouth. Her severe romantic dependency went from being a damsel-in-distress to an abusive, emotionally manipulative screwball. And that’s just scraping the tip of the iceberg, folks.
Upon actually watching all the films for the first time, Edward’s behavior isn’t nearly as bad as my first perceptions when I was in middle school, but his possessiveness and lack of personal space are still incredibly uncomfortable. I know we all wrote that fanfiction where person A gets saved by person B from attempted gang rape, but Edward is so overbearingly and exhaustively protective, and it just gets worse in the sequels up until Bella’s finally transformed into a vampire. It is to the point where he hardly trusts Bella to do anything by herself knowing how massive of a klutz she is, and will pop into her home without permission, warning or respect of her personal space. As such, she never grows independence, much less learn how to protect herself or be prepared when supernatural forces come for her while the Cullens leave.
Edward may have good intentions to think of Bella’s safety with the context of other vampires mercilessly killing humans in Washington state, but he’s also on a slippery slope of controlling nearly every aspect of her life, especially when she might start feeling romantic for someone else, because guess what dude? You left for over half a year. This continuing behavior throughout the series heavily contributes to Bella’s unhealthy dependency on a romantic partner to the point where she feels like she can’t live without them. Granted, that doesn’t excuse her emotional manipulation, but because she never learns self-defense on the off chance no one else is there to save her, it’s no wonder why she has severe issues with separation and loneliness. Like I said before, you can’t have a healthy romantic relationship if you think it’s going to automatically fix all your problems. Your romantic partner isn’t your therapist or coping mechanism, especially if you can’t handle a simple break up or if said partner wasn’t even that great to begin with.
You’d think Jacob would be off the hook since he at least doesn’t watch Bella while she’s sleeping, but he’s not escaping unscathed. Despite how the series tries to explain what imprinting is, it’s glanced over so quickly on the now creepy relationship between Jacob and Bella’s daughter, even all things considered for a rapidly growing vampire child. He also has a ton of aggressive tendencies as part of the werewolf gene to the point where he will inevitably hurt Bella-- as illustrated with another pack member’s live-in girlfriend who has scars across her face--, and has zero respect for consent as he forcibly kisses her on multiple occasions. Yeah, cause painting your Native American characters-- and only prominent characters of color-- as inevitable, aggressive predators sure is good representation and definitely not some awful racial stereotype. Jacob embodies the most basic descriptors of toxic masculinity between his sense of entitlement that Bella should choose him over Edward and the “boys will be boys” mentality as though Jacob is completely incapable of any self-control, werewolf or not. Given the recent news surrounding Brett Kavanaugh’s nomination and his defenders claiming “what boy hasn’t done this” and that he shouldn’t be punished for his actions as a young man, Jacob’s character is one of the most dangerous aspects of the series to be romanticized as a wish fulfillment fantasy. He’s not only based on gross racial stereotypes, but also on harmful patriarchal ideas of men thinking they’re entitled to women without any consideration to their autonomy. Normalizing this behavior as attractive qualities in a partner allows men to run from their actions without consequence.
And this toxic masculinity only heightened when Fifty Shades of Grey entered the spotlight for pop culture to bash, but had much more legitimate criticisms to garner hatred.
Fifty Shades of Grey changes up the wish fulfillment fantasy where instead of a vampire, the clumsy and awkward female lead, Anastasia Steele, is swept away by billionaire, Christian Grey, who’s happy to spoil her with grand luxuries but has a troubled past which makes it difficult for him to love. Oh, and he’s into BDSM and writes up a questionable contract for Anastasia on all the kinky shit he wants to do. And Anastasia is so sweet and innocent she doesn’t even know what an anal plug is (like, it’s right there in the name, sweetheart. You can’t be this dumb). As you do, things go wrong, they take a break, Christian dumps his tragic anime backstory on Anastasia as a pathetic excuse to apologize, people from his past show up because reasons, and they eventually live happily ever after, married with a baby on the way.
Not only does Christian hit the same abuser red flags as Edward, Jacob and Bella on top of being the worst dom in history, but the series passes off that anyone can be fixed with the power of love. Once again, your romantic partner isn’t your therapist. Trauma may explain his behavior, but that doesn’t excuse what he put Anastasia through, and neither is it suddenly her job to fix him. And abusers like Christian are never reformed so easily with love; more often than not, they use it as leverage to manipulate and keep the relationship going for the sake of control. Sure, it sounds hot to be in a BDSM relationship with a billionaire ready to spoil you, but do the ends really justify the means of that sweet wish fulfillment? Is it really that great of a fantasy to play your partner’s therapist and humor their extreme control and possessiveness to the point where you’re almost not allowed to be an individual?
It’s one thing to have guilty pleasures and wish fulfillment fantasies. But after a while, you wonder what it is about a certain piece of media which makes it a guilty pleasure. It’s one thing if Twilight or Fifty Shades of Grey are guilty pleasures in some of the enjoyably bad writing, unnatural dialogue or squandered potential. But upholding these romances as ideal and disregarding all the blatant warning signs of abusive relationships? That’s where we really need to take a step back and wonder why this is remotely okay to normalize, especially for impressionable teenage girls. Even though I was mostly amused by the films’ bad writing and these poor actors pushing through for their paychecks, there was also a fair amount of content which was too uncomfortable to laugh at-- Bella’s emotional manipulation, the portrayal of werewolves, and the unsubtle anti-abortion message in Breaking Dawn: Part 1 just to name a few. It’s baffling how these properties became cultural phenomenons for their “romances of the century” when most of these character really need couples’ counseling.
Thankfully, these franchises didn’t made too lasting impressions and for the most part are forgotten. Stephenie Meyer quietly retired to continue taking care of her kids, and EL James just kinda disappeared from the media spotlight since the last film released. Maybe Twilight and Fifty Shades of Grey aren’t the worst series to happen to mainstream media, but they still heavily reflect a society which to this day hesitates to call dating violence what it is. Where finding love in another takes priority over self-care. Where people still struggle to define abuse because “if that’s abuse, then everyone I know has been abused.” Where despite sexual assault survivors’ testimonies, polygraph tests, supporters, and grueling mental exhaustion to tell their stories, their abusers roam free without consequence and are still allowed power with their nasty holier-than-thou attitudes to silence anyone who dares question their character.
We’re slowly getting better in these kind of fantasies for teens with films like Love, Simon and To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before with genuinely health romances where the characters have to confront their flaws and grow. We’re a lot more critical of relationship dynamics in film than we were over a decade ago, especially with #MeToo in the last year. But part of me is still worried if we’ll have another trend like Twilight or Fifty Shades of Grey where it’s blindly defended because it’s fiction and disregard when people romanticize the severely problematic elements which don’t guarantee happily-ever-afters for couples’ in reality. As the possibility of reverting to pre-Roe vs. Wade days becomes more of a likelihood, at what point do we finally acknowledge that a simple fantasy isn’t automatically above criticism?
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#twilight#new moon#eclipse#breaking dawn#fifty shades#fifty shades of grey#wish fulfillment#self insert#editorial#opinion#my writing#stephenie meyer#el james#fantasy#fiction#reality
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Photo by John Moore
I’m sorry. I’ve tried, but I can’t help it. I have a bad feeling about the upcoming election. A very bad feeling. I’ve tried to stifle it. Tried and tried. But it’s rising, like a failed harvest, by the day. Do you have that kind of feeling too? Or maybe you don’t at all. I can’t say.
Let me distill what this strange and terrible feeling — it feels like watching a sky turn black, or a horizon grow red — keeps whispering to me.
(I’m going to put the first two reasons in parentheses because you should skip them. They’re boring and we all know them. The first one is the most obvious: Trump’s trying to steal the election. And so far, he’s doing a pretty good job. The Postal Service has been captured, voting machines mysteriously, quietly shut down, and meanwhile, the Democrats have threatened to…hold hearings. He’s threatened to send armed troops into the streets on Election Day. Then there’s the fact that his side has an array of legal challenges lined up, which will cast doubt on whatever the results are, throwing politics into chaos. And the fact that he doesn’t plan to leave office peacefully at all. Need I go on? Suffice it to say that an aspiring authoritarian has a well-crafted plan to thwart a fair election — but the opposition, what little there is, doesn’t have a unified, careful, decisive plan to stop him.
Then there’s all the help that Trump is going to have stealing the election. You know what’s coming, and so do I. Everyone from the Kremlin to your local unfriendly billionaires are going to barrage Facebook with propaganda — and because there’s money to be made, Zuck is going to grin like a dork, and look the other way.)
But those are only the least urgent, most superficial things my bad feeling whispers at me, to tell you the truth. The economist in me and the survivor of authoritarianism in me — they’re whispering truer truths to me right about now, ones I can’t ignore, I can’t deny, things I don’t want to say or admit or even think much about — but have to anyways.
Here’s the first one.
America’s up against not just Trump and his cronies — but against the tides of history itself. And history is a mighty, mighty force, like a great river. The few who’ve swum across its tides and lived to tell the tale? Well, they barely exist. Let me explain what I mean by that.
There’s one single force that foretells the rise of authoritarian-fascism in a nation: fresh, growing poverty, which breeds discontentment, anger, and eventually, hate. That hate is channeled by demagogues, targeted at long-hated minorities, who are blamed for all a society’s ills — which, in truth, they have nothing to do with.
It’s an old, old story, as old as time. Weimar Germany became Nazi Germany by way of Hitler, who blamed the Jews. A once vibrant and liberal Muslim world became a fanatical hotbed of extremism, by way of mullahs, who blame everyone from women to gays to “heretics.” Even Athens, the birthplace of democracy itself, fell prey to this vicious cycle, and fell to the Thirty Tyrants, as poverty and insecurity grew.
The latest example of poverty and despair igniting fascist-authoritarian collapse? America. Let me outline how grave the situation is. Just a quarter of working age Americans now have what would be considered decent jobs in any other nation. Another 25% work go-nowhere McJobs, what economists politely call “ low-income service jobs,” jobs with no benefits, protections, upward mobility, raises, security, on which you can’t support a family. And the remaining 50% are either unemployed, underemployed, or “discouraged,” meaning they’ve given up entirely.
Let me say it again. Just 25% of working age Americans have decent jobs. Everyone else is trying to eke out a living. And mostly, they’re failing. That’s why suicide and depression are skyrocketing. It’s why millennials can’t afford to start families, and are so traumatized they barely have sex. It’s why the birthrate is plummeting. How the middle class became a minority, and the dream died with it. Why 80% of American households live paycheck to paycheck, 75% struggle to pay basic bills, and 70% can’t raise a few hundred dollars for an emergency.
This is one great tide of history. One almost inescapable mechanism of cause and effect. The impoverishment of a society leads almost always to authoritarian collapse.
Now, most people — especially Americans — think that’s the other way around. They think authoritarianism breeds poverty. That’s exactly backwards. Authoritarianism doesn’t make people poor so much as people being poor breeds authoritarianism first. You only have to look at history to understand that. Why did peasants and serfs submit to being under the thumbs of kings and nobles, who were mostly violent, idiotic men with swords and guns? Because they were too poor to ever muster the resources to do anything about it. They were exhausted, drained, uneducated, illiterate, broken in the mind, spirit, heart. That’s why it took human civilization millennia to ever really develop beyond the age of empire.
The impoverishment of a society almost always leads to authoritarian collapse. Weimar Germany, Stalinist Russia, Maoist China, Islam in the late 20th century — I could go on forever. The examples of societies who have resisted this tide of history are so few and far between that they’re almost nonexistent.
What tends to happen is the precise opposite: societies have to become achingly, grindingly poor, reach a point of total catastrophe and ruin — before they wake up, come to their senses, and finally change. That’s Europe’s story. Only after World War II — the absolute devastation of it — did it become the place that’s synonymous with modernity and civilization today. Mere upheaval, as in World War I — even that wasn’t enough. Almost nobody escapes this tide of history. Nobody, in fact, that I can think of at all.
That means that America would have to be something truly, well, exceptional, to brook the tide of impoverishment breeding authoritarianism. Is that really the case? I imagine we’ll find out. But like I said, I have a bad feeling. History tells me that this challenge is much, much greater than most Americans think it is.
That brings me to the second reason I have a bad feeling, which is, well…Americans.
For Trump to really lose this election — not even by a landslide, just to lose it by a slender margin — three groups need to vote against him like they mean it. Young people, minorities, and those now notorious suburban housewives, by which we mean “downwardly mobile white women.”
I hate to have to say it, but I see absolutely no evidence yet that such a thing is happening. We need some kind of tidal wave of feelings rising from these groups, and I don’t feel it at the magnitude that we need it.
Young people, it seems to me, are just as tuned out and apathetic as they’ve been for a decade or more now. I don’t blame them. Joe Biden isn’t exactly a millennial or gen Z heartthrob, and neither is Kamala Harris. What I mean by that is that young Americans lean left — because they understand viscerally that they lived in a failed capitalist society, that capitalism has failed them the way communism failed Soviets. To Americans pundits, their young are “far” left — but they’re not, they’re mostly just minor-league social democrats in global terms.
But that perspective isn’t represented at all in the Democratic Presidential and VP choices. You couldn’t have more sober and boring neoliberals than Biden and Harris at all, really. And even though Biden’s a good dude, like Kamala, he’s not exactly a revolutionary, or even a reformist. He’s just…the establishment, all over again. “Better than Trump!” you cry. Definitely. Without a doubt. But young people aren’t exactly whooping with excitement — and that’s the point.
The same is true for minorities. Sure, if all you read is the New York Times, you’d think Kamala Harris was the second coming of MLK. But if you actually talk to minorities, you’ll hear a more rounded, skeptical point of view. It goes something like this. Kamala had to act like a white dude to ascend to power — and what’s the point of that? It obviates being a minority in the first place. If you have to act like them to gain power…then you’ve become them…and nothing changes. Different actor, same game.
Now, if all you listen to is pundits, you’ll never quite hear that perspective. But I think it’s a little insulting to think minorities are, well, so dumb that they’ll vote for someone just because they’re one of their own, according to skin color. I’m brown — should I vote for Kamala just because she’s half brown? Come on now, that’s mildly offensive, not to mention hilariously illogical. The point of view about minorities being presented by American punditry — most of which is white, remember — is way, way too simplistic to accord with lived reality. But what else is new? The point is this: just as young people are apathetic, minorities are skeptical and wary, too.
That brings me to the third critical constituency: soccer moms. Listen, I love soccer moms. No, not that way. I mean something more like I basically am a soccer mom, if a brown dude can be one. Hey, I get to choose my own pronouns now, right? I take my puppy to the park and hang out with all the other moms.
Recent history has shown us something funny, dismal, and surreal. Who decided the vote for Trump? All those nice white ladies. Who said they’d never vote for Trump? You guessed it. Who ignored Trump’s horrific history of misogyny, as in ‘grab ’em by the pssy’? Who had some kind of weird, deep hatred for Hillary, and chose Donald Trump over her? All those nice, polite soccer moms.*
White dudes — much maligned — ended up, in the last election, being a little more honest. They’ll tell you the batshit crazy stuff Americans believe to your face. “Nobody should have healthcare!!” “Wait, Bob, not even…your kids?” “No! They have to learn to stand on their two feet!!” “But what if they get — ” “Hey, only the strong survive, brochacho!! There’s no room for the weak around here!!” So white dudes we have a reasonably good read on: most of them, as in the majority, are fairly terrible people (sorry, white dudes), who, despite living in the 21st century, believe that nobody in society deserves any form of basic human rights, except maybe guns and beer and possibly obligatory sex from women. That’s a fact, by the way, even though I’ve put it in a funny way: Trump leads among white dudes by close to ten points.
So what if white women feel the same way — but just won’t admit it? That’s exactly what happened in 2016. The secret hate vote emerged, as in, the polls were wrong, because lots of people who said “Oh my God! I’d never vote for that hateful bigot”…turned around and…did. And most of those people — the secret hate voters — were women. The much maligned downwardly mobile American white lady. Soccer moms. If white ladies feel the same way white dudes do — and just won’t admit it, like last time — then…bang!!…Trump wins all over again. Even if just half of them do, he wins. He doesn’t even have to contest the results. He just…wins.
Now. How much do you trust the white suburban moms of America? Like I said, I’m a fan of soccer moms. But do I trust them? That’s a very different question. I only have history to guide me. And history, like I said, tells us that American soccer moms may very well repeat what they did in 2016. Everyone makes mistakes. People grow and learn. But it’s also true that people don’t change, that they stay the same in deep ways, that growth and maturity are hard-won are rare and precious.
I have a bad feeling about all that. I think the soccer moms of America might just turn out to do an about-face in the voting booth, like last time, and put Trump right back into office. Adding fuel to that fire in my mind is the question of whether they’ll really vote for Harris. Half black, half brown, the embodiment of everything that the downwardly white American lady, possibly secretly embittered and resentful…hated…just four short years ago. Is that much growth and maturity in so short a time really possible?
So now you know why. Why I have a bad feeling about this election. America, standing against the great tides of history, trying to swim upstream — a poor country now, trying to undo authoritarianism. How many have managed that? Very, very few. Young people, who seem as alienated as ever — with good reason. Minorities, whose views aren’t being examined or even thought about very carefully at all. And the vexing possibility of the betrayal by the white lady, or even just the American lady who wants to be more white. The one who secretly decided the election for a misogynist, a bigot, a crook, a man so brutish and violent he’s the very embodiment of patriarchy. Do people change that much in four short years?
History says no, my friends, to all these things. It say America can’t swim upstream now. Look how feeble it is, a wounded thing. It says young people won’t vote much for a candidate and his pick who don’t represent their preferences much at all. That minorities aren’t as simple as majorities make them out to be, and pandering to them rarely works well. And that people don’t change nearly so fast as circumstance needs them to, that wisdom comes slower than opportunity, which is the true source of all human grief.
Maybe the truest and darkest truth of them all about time, people, and dust, is the only one left worth believing in, I think to myself sometimes. It took Europe becoming ruins, mass grave, flames, bones — before it grew up, into gentleness, and rebuilt itself as the paragon of civilization and modernity. The growth of our capacity to love comes to us only through seeing what might have been turn to ashes. To mature, to expand in grace, beauty, truth, goodness, first we must fall down.
Umair
August 2020
I Have a Bad Feeling About This Election
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What I think about Alison Roman
Any Gen-Z’er with a Twitter account has probably seen the latest Gen-Z Icon Controversy, i.e. the one involving Alison Roman. In case you’re not caught up on its details, the tl;dr is that The New Consumer (which appears to be a one-white-man show of an online publication steered by a former Vox and Business Insider employee named Dan Frommer) published an interview with Alison last Thursday — an interview where Alison, when asked about the difference between “consumption and pollution” (as if there even is a material difference), said:
“I think that’s why I really enjoy what I do. Because you’re making something, but it goes away.
Like the idea that when Marie Kondo decided to capitalize on her fame and make stuff that you can buy, that is completely antithetical to everything she’s ever taught you… I’m like, damn, bitch, you fucking just sold out immediately! Someone’s like ‘you should make stuff,’ and she’s like, ‘okay, slap my name on it, I don’t give a shit!’
....
Like, what Chrissy Teigen has done is so crazy to me. She had a successful cookbook. And then it was like: Boom, line at Target. Boom, now she has an Instagram page that has over a million followers where it’s just, like, people running a content farm for her. That horrifies me and it’s not something that I ever want to do. I don’t aspire to that. But like, who’s laughing now? Because she’s making a ton of fucking money.”
This is the quote that most people who’ve followed this drama have latched onto, and I’ll come back to discussing it in a moment. I’m really not sure why the interview was published at all, other than for a publicity or financial boost during these times, because I don’t think anything worth hearing was uttered by either the interviewer or interviewee. Moments in the interview seemed either tone-deaf or trivial to the point where I wondered why they were included at all. Early on, for example, Alison laments that she hasn’t been making enough money during this pandemic. (She does not live in want of money.) Later she half-jokingly complains that her public persona has been reduced to “anchovy girl”, ostensibly because she often uses them in her cooking. (She does, and often proudly owns that fact, which makes this complaint pretty uninteresting.) But the point of this interview was meant to be, I think, a rumination on how Alison would turn her belief that she “isn’t like the other girls” into practice.
It’s a common thing to desire, I think — this ingenuity balanced with relatability, and I think seeking this balance is what propels so many people my age. Few things are more embarrassing to us than unoriginality, than being a carbon copy of someone else, yet few things are scarier than social rejection. We don’t want to like the same things as everybody else, but we want at least some people to like the things that we like. I think it’s what drives certain subcultures to exist in the first place, the way that subsections of people can congregate around something or someone, reveling in each other’s presence but also in knowing that they are, in fact, just a subsection of the greater population.
This mentality is, admittedly, sort of what drove me to like Alison Roman in the first place. For background: the first time I cooked a recipe of hers happened unwittingly; in December 2018, I saw the recipe for the salted chocolate chip shortbread cookies that became known as #TheCookies (Alison’s virality can be encapsulated by the fact that all of her most famous recipes have been hashtagged, e.g., #TheStew, #TheStew2, #ShallotPasta or #ThePasta), but I made them without knowing that Alison was the person behind the recipe. The cookies were good (though I think any recipe with over two sticks of butter and a pound of dark chocolate is bound to be good.) At some point about a year later, I watched a YouTube video published by NYT Cooking where she made her white bean-harissa-kale stew, and I thought she was funny and really pretty and, like me (I think), had a fastidious yet chaotic energy that I always thought made me awkward but made her seem endearing. Alison’s recipes taste good, they come together really easily, and you don’t need special equipment or a lot of kitchen space to execute them. It’s why I’ve committed at least three of them to memory, just by virtue of making them so often. I liked her recipes so much that, for over three months, one of my Instagram handles was inspired by one. But I also liked her, or wanted to be like her, or some combination fo both. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to be her friend, or that I didn’t aspire to her lifestyle of Rachel Comey clothes, glistening brass hoop earrings that cost 1/4 of my rent, regular trips to downtown Brooklyn or Park Slope farmers’ markets or small butcher shops where the purveyors all knew her name, an always-perfect red gel manicure, the capacity to eat and drink luxuriously and seemingly endlessly and to have the money for a yoga studio membership to help her stay slim anyways.
Of course all of those things are signifiers of social class more than anything else. But in oligarchical, consumerist societies, what is expensive and what is good become two overlapped Venn diagram circles, and I have not yet reached a level of enlightenment to be able to fully tease the two apart. And while I would never drop $425 on a jumpsuit, no matter how pretty I think it is, I could crisp up some chickpeas, stir in vegetable stock and coconut milk, and wilt in some greens, and act like my shit was together. I liked Alison because when I first started liking her, she hadn’t yet risen to the astronomical level of digital fame that she enjoys now, and by making her recipes, some part of me believed that I would be inducted into a small group of her fans who, by serving up her dishes, telegraphed good taste.
This idea of “good taste” is a complicated and racially charged one. Alison is white; she lives in one of the whitest neighborhoods in Brooklyn (maybe even all of New York City); her recipes cater to a decidedly young, white audience. I think another reason why her dishes hold so much Gen-Z appeal, beyond their simplicity and deliciousness, is because they sit at the perfect intersection of healthy-but-not-too-healthy and international-but-not-too-international. Her chickpea stew, for example, borrows from South and Southeast Asian cooking flavors, but you wouldn’t need to step foot into an ethnic grocery store or, god forbid, leave Trader Joe’s, to get the ingredients for it. The shallot pasta recipe calls for an entire tin of anchovies, and you get to feel cool and edgy putting a somewhat polarizing food into a sauce that white people will still, ultimately, visually register as “tomato sauce and pasta” and digest easily. All of the recipes in her cookbook, Nothing Fancy (which I received as a gift!), are like this. She doesn’t push the envelope into more foreign territory, probably because she doesn’t have the culinary experience for it (which is totally fine — I never expected her to be an expert in anything except white people food), and probably also because if she did push the envelope any further, her book, with its tie-dyed pages and saturated, pop-art aerial shots, wouldn’t have been as marketable.
That’s what’s unfortunate — that white people and white-domineered food publications have been the arbiters of culinary taste in the U.S. for centuries. I’m thinking about Julia Child, about bananas foster being flambéed tableside and served under a silver domed dish cover, about the omnipresent red-and-white-checked Better Homes & Gardens cookbook, about Guy Fieri and Eric Ripert and Ina Garten and the Bon Appétit Test Kitchen. I’m thinking about how white women have long been the societally accepted public face of domestic labor when it was often Black women who actually did that labor. It’s Mother’s Day today, and I’m thinking about how, in middle school, I’d sometimes conceal my packed lunch of my favorite dishes my mom made — glass noodles stir-fried with bok choy, cloud ear mushrooms, carrots, and thinly sliced and marinated pork; fish braised in a chili-spiced broth — so that my white friends wouldn’t be grossed out, and so that I wouldn’t have to do the labor of explaining what my food was.
And I’m thinking of that now-notorious Alison Roman quote. To be fair, Marie Kondo and Chrissy Teigen do have large consumer and media empires, which have become profitable and which require huge teams of people to sustain. Both of them probably do have large amounts of money at their disposals. What’s weird to me is that Alison accuses both Marie and Chrissy of “selling out” because they each branded their own lines of purchasable home goods, yet Alison herself said in that very same interview that she had also done that very thing. It’s just that Chrissy’s line is sold at Target, while Alison’s, according to her, is a “capsule collection. It’s limited edition, a few tools that I designed that are based on tools that I use that aren’t in production anywhere — vintage spoons and very specific things that are one-offs that I found at antique markets that they have made for me.” I suppose it’s not “selling out” if it caters to the pétite bourgeoisie. I don’t know if Alison is explicitly racist, since I don’t know if she called out two women of color simply because they are women of color, or if she genuinely just so happened to select two of them. But that she feels like she has the license to define things as “selling out” based on who the “selling-out” behavior caters to reeks of white entitlement.
There’s also an air of superiority with which she describes how she would market her product line:
That would have to be done in such a specific way under very intense standards. And I would not ever want to put anything out into the world that I wouldn’t be so excited to use myself.
She says this right before talking about Marie Kondo and Chrissy Teigen, accusing them of being lackadaisical and unthoughtful (”okay, slap my name on it! I don’t give a shit!”; “people running a content farm for her”) when she likely has no idea what the inner workings of either of their business models are. To be sure, it could very well be true that Marie and Chrissy have handed off these aspects of their brands to other people. But for Alison to assume that they have, and that her own business management style would, by default, be better because she would retain control, is egotistical.
Alison ends the interview by proclaiming that her ultimate goal is to be different from her contemporaries. She says,
To me, the only way that I can continue to differentiate myself from the pod of people that write recipes, or cookbooks or whatever, is by doing a different thing. And so I have to figure out what that is. And I think that I haven’t ultimately nailed that. And I’m in the process of figuring it out right now.
I expect that her path to “differentiation” will contain riffs on the same iterations of preserved lemons, anchovies, canned beans, and fresh herbs that she’s always relied on. I expect people will still think she’s cool, because that’s easy to achieve when her recipes and aesthetic are a series of easy-to-swallow-pills, when she tells the cameraman not to cut the footage of her accidentally over-baking her galette, and when being a white creative and working among mostly white colleagues means that she’ll get a lot of latitude. I expect she’ll continue to sell out, which is completely fine, so long as she’ll be candid with herself and actually call it selling out.
And I want to learn recipes from a chef who looks like me, and I want that chef to be “marketable” enough to achieve Alison’s level of fame. I want people of color to get to decide what recipes deserve their own hashtag. I want Alison Roman to be emotionally okay, because Twitter backlash can be vicious. And I kinda want to buy Marie Kondo’s drawer organizers now.
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