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“Rome, Sweet Rome” is a short story that began as part of a Reddit thread and eventually turned into a movie deal. It’s about a modern US Marine Corps unit that gets sucked back in time and fights Roman soldiers in 23 BC. It’s just like one of the thousand of ridiculous “what if?” conversations that take place on the web every day. But it’s also something that the people who were involved with it while it was being made never forgot.

A People’s History of Tattooine is something I was involved with, although someone else nominated it for part of the time capsule. In 2014, a bunch of geeky dads (mostly) on a Saturday started to wonder how the Star Wars stories would be told not by the Rebellion or the Empire, but by the nonhuman people seen throughout the series. In other words, as Jake Harris wrote, “what if Mos Eisley wasn’t really that wretched and it was just Obi Wan being racist again?”

This attitude, which treats almost nothing with reverence, but everything with care for its consistency and its consequences, is one of the fundamental modes of being on the web. It’s not like traditional fandom, scholarly pedantry, or manual-driven computation, where the original texts are treated like sacred writ. It’s fanfic, it’s slashfic, it’s deconstruction, it’s inventing your own entire fork of a standard because the standard doesn’t do what you think it ought to do. And it’s an attitude particularly well-suited for world-building.

The web is a portal to other worlds (Jason on the link between the internet, fan work, and the tendency towards worldbuilding.)

“Nothing With Reverence, Everything With Care” would be a great motto on a coat of arms

Southern California Gothic

“It will rain.” they say. They say that every day. And every day, you wait. How long have you waited? You don’t know anymore.
You stop at a dusty intersection. At all corners, there are people with fruit stands. The cherries are 2 dollars a pound. You see the sign saying no stands. You look to the police. They have one too. The strawberries are a dollar a basket.
You’re walking in LA along Hollywood Boulevard. You walk along the stars. It feels like forever. So many and yet so many still. You eventually find your own name on one for film. You have never been in a movie. Or so you think.
“Let’s go to In-N-Out,” says your friend. Which one? There are no other burger places around. There is only In-N-Out. There is always only In-N-Out.
You walk past a person in a Dodgers hat. Not uncommon. Everyone owns one. Everyone you walk past wears one. You reach up onto your head. You are one of them.
You go to a restaurant with a friend. Everything is gluten free. You don’t mind. Everything is. What even is gluten? You don’t know, but you are horrified by it.
The beach is nice in the summer. The beach is nice in spring. The beach is nice. The beach is your friend, your overlord. You must respect it. Bow to it before stepping on its sandy shores.
You get onto the 405. Siri says you only go 5 miles before getting off on the exit ramp. It has been decades since she said that last. Your hands are old and wrinkled as they grip the wheel. Siri says you have 4 miles to go. It’s faster than usual.
You park your car on the side of the road and get out. The beach. You look at the top of your car to find a surfboard. You don’t own a surfboard. You do now and have accepted it as your new way of life. You go to put on your wetsuit.
Your friend says she has tickets to the next concert. You ask where. She laughs. It is everywhere. The Bowl. The Forum. Staples Center. It is everywhere at once. All concerts are.
You debate on where to go for summer vacation. The fight ensues. Magic Mountain, Knott’s Berry Farm, Universal Studios, and Disneyland. They fight for your affection and your money for when summer comes. This happens every year.
The palm tree outside your window waves at you in the wind. The palm trees are your ever present, looming protector. They are always watching.
You hear the chiming of the elotero’s cart. You grab your money and run out the door. There is no elotero. The bell still rings. It always rings.

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The Science of How Our Minds and Our Bodies Converge in the Healing of Trauma

The Science of How Our Minds and Our Bodies Converge in the Healing of Trauma

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Jews, Not Russians, Behind Trump’s Victory, Russian Foreign Minister Spokesperson Says

Jews, Not Russians, Behind Trump’s Victory, Russian Foreign Minister Spokesperson Says

We have this closet in our apartment. It’s horribly placed, and difficult to get in an out of. Over the years it’s become THAT closet – the one where you throw things to get them out of the way, or because you “might need it one day,” or because you don’t want to think about them.

Today, I pulled every last thing out of that closet. I threw out a lot of it, prepared a ton of items to donate, and reorganized it so that it can now be useful on a day-to-day basis.  

So I guess I really didn’t want to write today. 

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Skam, which means “shame” in Norwegian, is released in real-time, with zero warning. If a scene takes place at school on a Tuesday afternoon, the clip goes up on the show’s website Tuesday afternoon. If it takes place at one in the morning at a Saturday night house party, like the first scene of the third season, which Erlend and his friends watched together last year, then it’s uploaded on a Saturday night. At week’s end, the clips, which vary in length but are rarely longer than 15 minutes, are rolled into a single “episode,” which airs on television.