People noting this anniversary reminding me again that it is such an insane failure of the pro-choice movement that we do not as a nation think of George Tiller as a civil rights hero and additionally a martyr at the level of MLK Jr. or a Kennedy. So, you know, do your part, etc.
“It is my fundamental philosophy that patients are emotionally, mentally, morally, spiritually and physically competent to struggle with complex health issues and come to decisions that are appropriate for them.” – George Tiller, MD
“It is my fundamental philosophy that patients are emotionally, mentally, morally, spiritually and physically competent to struggle with com
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please read this even if you're not indian. especially if you're not indian.
you've seen the jokes. india is "dirty", indians are "everywhere", why don't they fix their own country. ok. let me tell you why, and what's happening right now while nobody's watching.
first, the history you skipped: britain ruled india for two centuries and drained it. economist utsa patnaik's research estimates around $45 trillion in today's money was taken. the india that got independence in 1947 was one of the poorest countries on earth. every "why is india like this" question starts there. you don't get to profit off a robbery and then mock the crime scene.
now, what's happening RIGHT NOW:
in may the question paper for NEET leaked. that's the national medical entrance exam. over 2.2 million students took it. cancelled. years of studying, families' savings poured into coaching, gone overnight because someone sold the paper. students died by suicide after. these were kids who wanted to be doctors.
and out of that came a protest movement. a gen z group called the cockroach janta party, started by a 30 year old named abhijeet dipke, got 22 million instagram followers within DAYS. they've been doing a sit-in at jantar mantar in delhi demanding education minister dharmendra pradhan resign.
and then there's sonam wangchuk. if you've watched 3 idiots, he's the real engineer the character was based on. built solar schools in ladakh. invented ice stupas so himalayan villages have water. spent his whole life on education. he's 59 and he's been on hunger strike for 17+ days now. reporters went to see him this week and he was too weak to talk. and the troll armies are calling him "anti national" and "foreign funded". a man starving himself for other people's children. that's the thing here, anyone who asks a question is suddenly a traitor.
it's not one incident, it's everywhere you look:
• infrastructure worth thousands of crores failing within months of the ribbon cutting. tunnels collapsing in regions where heavy rain is a guarantee, not a surprise.
• youth unemployment near 10% for ages 15 to 29, 13.6% in cities. in a country of 1.42 billion where more than half the population is young.
• only about the top 3% of indians earn above 10 lakh a year. meanwhile billionaire wealth keeps ballooning and the headlines celebrate it.
• manipur burned for over two years. an ethnic conflict, tens of thousands displaced, and the prime minister barely said the word manipur while it happened.
• journalists raided. critics' houses bulldozed. activists sitting in jail for years without trial under laws like UAPA. our press freedom ranking has cratered.
• even the petrol is a fight now, ethanol blending pushed through while drivers complain about their engines and get no straight answers.
and through all of it, the PM, who came to power on religious polarisation (americans, sound familiar?), travels abroad for photo ops and has not held one single open press conference in over a decade. not one.
what i'm asking:
if you're not indian: share this. our media mostly won't cover any of it because the big outlets are owned by the same billionaires the government serves. the only reason wangchuk's fast is getting any coverage is people refusing to look away.
if you ARE indian: speak up even if you're comfortable. especially if you're comfortable. join the protests. add to this, correct me, translate it. staying quiet is a choice when nothing in this post touches your life.
india is not "dirty". india was robbed, and it's being robbed again, from the inside this time. but it's also the country where a 59 year old will starve for strangers' kids and 22 million young people will rally behind a party literally named after cockroaches, because cockroaches survive everything.
So I've got this friend whose nervous because she's trans and dating this guy who she hasn't told yet because they've only been on a two dates. For this story let's call the friend Jane and the guy she was dating Jason. Happy ending don't worry.
So I tell Jane to bring her boy over to a bbq I'm having and she can tell him she's trans at my place surrounded by queer and trans people who love her and will support her if he ends up being awful.
She waits till the end of the bbq to tell him the news, by which point the rest of us have learned that Jason is a kind, friendly, empathetic, hard working, dummy. So we sit down, all of us a little worried about this gym bro's reaction when she tells him she's trans, and that she understands if he doesn't want to keep dating her it's no big deal.
He's baffled, so we explain what trans is, and after the disclosure that she hasn't had bottom surgery yet...
"Oh you have a dick?"
"... yeah."
He look's around at the room full of people with baited breath, his clearly a little afraid girl friend says
"Oooohhhh! I get it! You think- don't worry Babe! Watch this!"
And ya'll this man jumps up, runs into the kitchen and returns with one of the bratwurst we had for grilling and proceeds to tilt his head back, put it down his throat, hold it in his mouth for a moment, and spit it up without even a whisper of a gag and then looks around at the group absolutely beaming with pride.
My mans saw his worried girlfriend and her support network and thought to him self "Oh they don't think I can't please my girl, but I'll show them!"
I do feel the need to add that later he excitedly tell the group that as a straight guy, he never thought that skill would be useful outside hotdog eating contests.
For several minutes, all he could hear was the high-pitched whistle of a tea kettle, and all he could see was the steam pouring out of his ears. Brenner wouldn’t. Would he? He’d made plenty of threats, but actually doing it—he would. Of course he would. A guy like him had simply been waiting. The last cover artist for The New York Review? John had been staring into the bathroom mirror in shock, stunned. He blinked, shook his head, and the steam and whistling disappeared.
While he had been fuming, Hunter and Jenny were dissecting the soon-to-be released email draft of doom: Hunter scrolling and frowning, Jenny sniffing and pointing. He heard phrases like “new developments in The Review’s internal structure”, “termination of current cartoonists’ contracts” and “consolidation of illustration roles”—each batch of words more barbed and soulless and corporate than the last. Hunter said as much in her ranting.
“Jesus,” she concluded, and then looked at John. “…how are you?”
The two of them stared at him under the hum of the bathroom lights while Catarina wailed in the rotunda. He inhaled, adjusted his bow tie, and pushed open the bathroom door. “I’m gonna take a walk.”
Hunter frowned. “Right now? Where?”
“I dunno,” he said cheerily and was out the door.
Below on the ground floor, Catarina beamed as she serenaded the crowd, sweet, swingy, and soaring. Along with the hundred other celebrities, Tyler looked up at her full of adoration. John spotted Brenner in the middle of it all, smirking in the darkness, probably thrilled at how smoothly the evening’s proceedings were going. Brother. John weaved through servers, producers, event photographers, lingering publicists floating over the attendees, never taking his eyes off the editor-in-chief. Maybe he should walk up to Tyler, kneel down, ask him out on a date, and then get out of here. No, I should go right up to Brenner, say something incredibly witty, and then leave. He massaged his wrist. Why not both? He’d need something legendary—something so stinging it would become Review lore, the kind of stuff historians gasp at in textbooks.
His feet had taken him to the larger bathrooms of the Guggenheim, the ones that weren’t single occupancy. Maybe the women’s room was the place where a bunch of startlets would crowd to get a viral selfie—there was a line forming at the door, but the men’s room was empty. As he pushed open the door, he collided with a brick wall.
That is, the man he walked into was as sturdy as one. When John looked up rubbing his wrist, he realized he was staring at one of Samwell University’s most famous alumni. Oh jeez, was he here with his husband as a plus-one or something? Was Geoffrey Brenner obsessed with a baking influencer? Was he secretly a hockey fan?
“Sorry,” said Jack Zimmermann, stepping aside. He was as wide as Tyler and had the same clear blue eyes—so was in other words, stupidly handsome in a tuxedo. He paused. “Wait. You’re the Cover Sessions artist, aren’t you? My husband loves your videos!”
“That’s me,” said John, with a small nod. He couldn’t do this right now. “Love your work. Your games. Your…skating and goals. And what you’ve done for the community.” John sighed, pained sympathy. “Let’s go…Samwell!”
He pumped a fist. Jack Zimmermann, confusingly, pumped his fist in the air in return. Panicked, he backed away and left quickly.
John turned and saw another familiar face.
“Dan? Your company works all of these events?”
The last time he had seen Dan, the bathroom attendant, was at the New York Review Festival after party, minutes before John had gotten ensnared in a viral pool party. He wondered if Dan’s corner of the Internet included stupid celebrity parties. He hadn’t changed a bit—it had only been six months—but had ditched the small mustache. A shame. John thought that mustache charming. He greeted John with a genial wave.
“Oh shit,” said Dan. “What’s up boss? You see Jack Zimmermann? Nice guy.”
“I did,” said John. “How’s it been?”
“To be real with you?” Dan sighed and shook his head. “Not great.”
“Really?” John leaned against the counter.
Dan looked up at him guiltily. “Yeah, you know how it is…I messed things up with my girl. I missed this big party she helped put together for her cousin? Because something came up at work. She worked hard on it too…”
“That's tough,” said John, clicking his tongue.
“She's patient with me too, which makes it worse. Because this has happened a few times. So I’m trying, but you know?”
“When did this happen?”
“Last night. I don’t know what to do, man.”
John crossed his arms. “I’m the last person to offer anyone advice, but do you want my advice?”
“Please.”
“First of all, say you’re sorry, buy her flowers,” said John. “Second, work’s important, but she’s more important, so it’s priorities, I guess? Because I think stuff like that—you make mistakes again and again and you figure out what you actually can’t lose. It’s why I stopped drinking. Well, not exactly the same. Also, I probably replaced drinking with a different addiction—Garfield collectible merchandise. You know the orange cat from the newspaper comics?”
“Oh yeah, Heathcliff?”
John frowned. “No. Anyway. Just my two cents. Get a second opinion though. I look put together because I’m wearing a tuxedo but I’m a complete wreck.” Dan laughed. “Seriously, I’m broke. Man, how much did you say I should charge famous people for portraits? Ten thousand? Do you want to be my illustration agent? Ten percent commission—no, fifteen. For you, Dan, fifteen.”
Dan laughed again. “Damn, priorities. You're right. I gotta get my priorities straight…You had a drinking problem? For real?”
“I know. I look like I can't hold down apple juice.”
Dan laughed again. “You're quick, man. You should do comedy.”
John laughed with him, but then really thought about it. With a loud crackling buzz, a lightbulb went on over his head.
“Sorry about that broken lightbulb,” said Dan. “It’s been like that all night.”
John snapped his fingers. He should do comedy.
John reached into his tuxedo jacket, pulled out a few dollar bills. Suddenly, every system in his body was coming online from a surge of adrenaline.
“Dan,” said John, “I only have four dollars. And a nearly complete punch card to a cafe in Greenwich.”
“Yeah, man, it's okay,” said Dan. He held up his fist. “You don't seem like you're wealthy or anything. Plus, you didn’t even pee.”
John fist bumped him, put the cash on the tray next to—Jesus, how much did Zimmermann tip? “Good luck, Dan. God bless you.”
He sprinted out of the bathroom and into the rotunda to a burst of applause.
Catarina launched into one last song, and John stared at the stage. Okay. All right. How bad could this all go? One half of his brain was telling him to text Tyler “are you free for a drink?” and leave; the other half of his brain was shorthanding a script, and highlighting punchlines. John loved a tightrope walk, the thrill of a performance, but he had not prepared, had not run any of this through. If he bombed it would be bombing on a live telecast of thousands of people—and before hundreds of celebrities. A big chunk of Hollywood and New York City’s elite art scene was sitting in those delicate chairs. If he didn’t bomb…
He glanced at Tyler.
John simply decided that he wouldn’t.
John walked up to Danielle. Catarina's voice carried high into the rotunda, and as he got closer, he caught Brenner’s eye, smiled—Brenner smirked back—and lightly grabbed Danielle’s arm.
“Hi,” whispered John, leading her along. A huge applause broke out as Catarina bowed under the spotlight. “I need you to take me up to the stage while talking into your headset the entire time.”
Danielle scurried with him. ”Why? What the hell are you doing?”
“Because you look like you’re in charge and people are scared of you,” he panted, putting her in front of him like a shield, “and just trust me.”
As they walked, Danielle put her hand up to her headset mic and frowned but walked fast, the crowd parting as she held out her clipboard.
Clapping guests stared at them as they marched around the Cover Sessions setup. The camera was trained on the stage, broadcasting live to hundreds of thousands of people—perfect, no pressure. When they reached the stage, John adjusted his tux, walked past a Guggenheim Social producer, who also had a headset and clipboard. They were about to ask why John was going on stage—when they took one look at Danielle and stepped aside.
“Thanks, Danielle,” John said.
“I had nothing to do with this.”
John planted himself at the foot of the stage, just as Catarina was coming down the stairs, and she stopped in her tracks. He leaned in to whisper in her ear, heart thrumming in his chest.
“Hey. Can you do one more song?” he asked.
She bolted up straight, but leaned in to whisper again. “Yes. Oh my God, of course. An encore? They want me to do an encore?”
“Yes,” said John, “but I’m going to give remarks. But you guys can go right into it after that, okay?”
Catarina nodded, gesturing for the drummer and guitarist of the band to stay. “I had no idea you were going to talk to everyone.”
“Yeah, neither did I. May I?”
John held out his hand, and Catarina placed the mic in his palm. He tapped it. Heavy. Hot. Good. He had one foot on the stage when he turned back to Catarina, covering the mic. “You were phenomenal by the way.” Then he took another step into the spotlight, and faced the hundred-something-person crowd of artists, actors, pop stars, professional athletes, unwanted billionaires, and staffers of The New York Review. Tyler Hughes was at the first table, and looked up at him, surprised and delighted. John, butterflies in his stomach, smiled back.
John Rich had been very good at standup comedy. He knew this, because people reacted to his comedy the way they reacted to his drawings—with recognition. With art, this meant leaning in, staring, going “ah!” and with comedy, laughter. Yes, John was an awkward anxious wreck six days out of seven, and yes, he had once combusted after Tyler Hughes called him a nickname, but on stage he had it figured out. Nothing could touch him. Not only did it all feel right—the weight of the mic, the sound of his voice, the knowledge that everyone in a room was listening to his clever thoughts; it felt deserved. They should be listening. Because if the ideas in John’s head were funny to him, they’d be funny to anyone else too. He was not just going to be fine—he was going to be more than fine. He was going to kill.
Because John Rich, at any moment, had a deadly five minutes.
“Hello, Guggenheim Social,” said John, voice echoing loud through the rotunda, “can we get another round of applause for the effervescent Catarina Harlow!”
A roaring applause erupted before John even finished his sentence. Of course. If you’re sitting in the crowd at a fancy gala and a man in a tuxedo tells you to clap, you’re gonna clap. The lights were bright on him but he could see, at a table two rows back, Geoffrey Brenner sat up—frozen. No, Jeff, this wasn’t on the schedule. John had to move fast.
“And keep that going for the amazing emerging artists whose work we’re here to honor tonight!” He raised a hand and, like puppets, they clapped again.
“Welcome to the Guggenheim Social, an event organized by The New York Review and Audre West Entertainment,” said John, words falling out slowly, clear, without a stumble. “My name is John Rich, and I do covers for The New York Review—”
The first bump of this set: John was not expecting the applause here. Hooting and hollering broke out amongst the tables. He felt his eyebrows shoot up, and leaned into the expression, lowering the microphone in stunned silence to get the first chuckles of the evening. They cheered louder. Hunter stood at the edge of the rotunda, scrambling for her phone to start recording, and cheering her head off like everyone else. John smirked and brought the microphone back up to his lips.
“….I do covers for The New York Review,” said John, drinking in the pause and waiting for the applause to fade to silence, “but you might know me from, oh you know, falling into two feet of water last year.“
There it was. That first honest pop of laughter was like catching a warm breeze and riding it right up into the sky. The virality of the fountain incident was worth it. Oh, he was flying. He was a mile over Manhattan. They didn’t just like him—they loved him.
“If you’re wondering,” he continued, smiling wide, “people see me on the train, and they still ask me if I’m okay after that fountain thing. And I say ‘no’, but then again, was I ever really okay in the first place?”
Again, they chuckled, all adoring grins as far as he could see. He had some tried and true bits—things he had repeated a million times at dinners and at the barbershop and whenever people asked him how he liked his job. He trotted them out one by one, because from there John knew it: this crowd was going to eat up everything.
“Before we bring Catarina back onstage, I wanted to thank you all so much for being here tonight. We’re here to celebrate art and culture in New York City, which is what The Review is about.
“You know, I love being the cover artist for The New York Review. Because it’s a job that shouldn’t exist. Every magazine in the world puts celebrities and super models on their covers, but we at The New York Review said, ‘you know what’s way hotter than that? That’s right….tasteful drawings of experimental poets.’
“For someone like me, it was either this or become a courtroom sketch artist, which I would be very bad at. Because I would not pay attention. If someone was wearing a bad wig, that’s it. That’s the drawing. Lumpy head? I’m locking in. ‘Oh, sorry, I did not draw the defendant during the moment of sentencing, I did however draw a juror whose head was oddly round. Did anyone else notice how round that guy’s head was? Just me? I’m fired? That’s fair.’
“You know, The New York Review gets a bad rap for being too intellectual, taking itself too seriously, being too intimidating—which isn’t true at all. So to completely change our image, we hired Geoffrey Brenner as editor-in-chief—”
It was all John could ever ask for: a burst of laughter exploded from the back—from the Audre West employees, and was echoed by the knowing crowd. A diplomatic smile flitted to Brenner’s face and he clapped, but he stared daggers into John. John gave him his biggest shit-eating grin. Making Geoffrey Brenner publicly uncomfortable at his own gala checked off a huge box, but John couldn’t help it. He kept going. “People don’t know this but he has a great sense of humor, he is just really good at hiding it.
“But I am here today,” said John, for the first time, a tremble entered his voice, “to make an announcement. Maybe I should say I loved being the cover artist for The Review, because I am resigning.”
The crowd hushed. John swallowed, his mind going blank with what to say next. There. He said it. That would be the headline from this entire evening’s affair. You can’t fire me, Geoffrey Brenner—because I quit. Sweat prickled at his back, and the mental script he ran through had no more words. All he could hear was the tinkle of wine glasses and the increasing murmur from the audience, who was suddenly realizing that none of this was planned.
“I-I am resigning,” John repeated, but forcing a smile, forcing control back into his voice. He looked down at Tyler, who was staring back at him, hand covering his mouth, waiting for John’s next words. John took a breath. “And I’m announcing it here because. Well, someone told me that doing it at the Guggenheim Social would be the best way to get booked for weddings and barmitzvahs for the rest of the year?”
Now John laughed—from relief—because the museum was laughing with him. They were back. “Bachelorette parties? I have no other skills. Dear God, please hire me. My email is [email protected]—I lose access on Monday, seriously.”
“Artists, we do this—this.” He gestured to the building and the exhibit it housed. “Because if we don’t, we’ll die. It’s that simple. You wake up compelled to figure something out about yourself, or the world, or someone else. We do this to survive. Art should be something that we use to reach out to one another and to understand one another. And I’m glad to have been part of something that has connected so many people.
“The last thing I’ll say is,” and he paused, “I do wish that I had gotten more cartoons in the magazine, but it’s really hard. Like, you think Review cartoons are hard to understand—I don’t get them either. Anyway.”
John's wrist was starting to throb in pain. He realized he had been clutching the mic with a deathgrip, like someone was going to wrest it away from him.
“Please enjoy the evening, please enjoy each other, and please, for the love of god, enjoy all this goddamn art.” He waved. They were already applauding, and he shouted over it. “Thank you. Catarina Harlow one more time, everyone.”
He bowed.
The rotunda erupted into applause, and when Catarina met John at the stairs to the stage, she beamed. She threw her arms around him, and they kissed cheeks. “Oh my God, you’re hilarious!”
”Th-thanks,” he said. Uh-oh. His tongue was starting to feel like it was made out of a sock. He had to get out of here. “Go and kill it.”
He jogged down the steps and through a sea of clapping hands and gowns and tuxedos and smiling mouths.
“So sad you’re leaving The—”
“Wonderful speec—”
“Ruff!”
But he couldn’t stop. His retinas still stung from the stage lights and he swam through a sea of dark blobs and pinpricks of candle light as Catarina launched into another song. He heard Hunter shouting over the crowd, saw Danielle swearing at him and shaking her head, but he could feel Geoffrey Brenner moving to intercept him, only slowed down by the dozens of dinner tables and celebrities between them. John got to his drawing table, realized Danielle must have moved his sketchbook and briefcase elsewhere, snatched up his pencil bag, put it in the pocket of his tuxedo, and wove through the crowd of event staff until he was at the side entrance and out of the Guggenheim. He set off down Fifth Avenue at a brisk walk then a jog, sidestepping a screeching taxi as it wailed at him, and running across the street as annoyed bikes clanged their bells. He ran, breathless, until he was drenched in the darkness of Central Park.
He opened his phone to text Hunter:
me: Had to stepnoutsee you after yhe show ?
Jesus Christ, he couldn’t type—his entire body shook from the post-adrenaline comedown. He walked fast through the park. This wasn’t a daydream. This was real. He tried to pocket his phone, but his shaking hands missed his pocket and it clattered to the ground. He stooped down to pick it up, and that’s when he heard behind him, faint at first.
“John. John!”
John turned around.
Someone was running after him in a cream-white tuxedo.
John stared, as Tyler Hughes jogged through Central Park, illuminated by lamp posts and darkened by tree cover again and again as he ran up to him. John watched, panting, and set his jaw to keep it from chattering.
“Oh my god!” said Tyler, when he had reached him. “I’m lucky as fucking hell that I found you. That was insane! Did you really just quit and run out of there? You’re really not cover artist or something?”
“H-how—how?” Make your mouth move normally, John. “How’d you know I’d take off for the park?”
Tyler shrugged as they walked side by side. “I dunno. Hunter was looking for you too, but she went off toward Madison. That took huge balls, mate. Oh my god. Everyone was talking.”
“Did it seem planned?” John asked.
“Maybe but—it also absolutely did not. Which made it all the more impressive. Holy hell.” Tyler’s smile faded. “You alright? You're shaking.”
John stopped walking.
He had already done one scary thing that evening; two wouldn’t kill him. Plus, Tyler wouldn’t let him die. Even though everything felt right, and he knew what he knew about Tyler, the what if? still frightened him. His stomach dropped. His heart pounded. His hands trembled.
“Tyler, last year, when we were in your apartment after recording,” said John, “d-did you want to kiss me?”
Tyler was quiet. He looked at John, hands in his pockets.
“Yeah, I did,” he said softly. “Why?”
The answer made John’s head swim, and his hands rattled even more. Go, he told himself. Do it. Be honest. Don’t be an idiot about it. He took in a breath, and nodded.
“I should’ve just kissed you, then,” said John, "and I wanted to. But I—I get scared sometimes. Anyway.”
There was the scraping sound of asphalt under his dress shoes as he turned to face Tyler, and there was a spark when his hands settled on Tyler’s waist. John pulled Tyler close and kissed him.
He felt the scratch of Tyler’s beard, but his lips were warm and soft and gentle. Tyler shifted, and John felt a hand cradling the back of his head, an arm wrapping around his back. There was a puff of cool night air between them before Tyler found John’s lips again, and again, exhaling against John’s nose, thumb stroking the back of John’s neck, and John felt like every firework from New Year’s Eve was going off in his body. Because Tyler was kissing him. John could taste the wine from the Social, smell his cologne, feel the weight of his body against his—
CLING. CLING CLING.
Tyler stepped aside and jerked John with him.
The bike bell waned in the distance, but the delivery guy looked over his shoulder and bellowed. “Fucking bike lane!”
“What?…Come on!” shouted John. “What the hell!”
“Stupid!” shouted the guy.
“For the love of—we were kissing!” shouted John right back. He stepped away from Tyler. “It’s Central Park! We were making out! Ever heard of fucking romance?”
Fading into the darkness, the guy flipped him off. John rolled his eyes.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” muttered John. John squinted. “Wait a minute. Was that the same guy? From when we were walking through Washington Square Park? No way. No way!” He turned to Tyler. “I think that was the same—”
His words were lost on Tyler’s smiling, laughing lips. ✏️
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previous chapter < start > next chapter ("John’s")
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✏️ Author's Note
Have feelings??? SIGN THE GUEST BOOK! Still have feelings??? COME BACK AND READ THE COMMENTS.
i need you to tell a friend bc i wish ten thousand more people were reading about this stupid cartoonist finding love
guesses for the next chapter? There’s only 3 left, people. what other important plot points need to happen hmmmmm
laugh tax please
i’m abroad while updating this so please excuse the millions of typos i will correct them in america!!!
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So he said it can't be a Black. So I said, "For God's sakes, Judge Murphy, that's the whole point of the Goddamn story!" So he said, "No, it can't be a Black". Bill just called him up and raised the roof, and finally they said, "Well, you gotta take the perspiration off". I had the stars glistening in the perspiration on his Black skin. Bill said, "Fuck you", and he hung up.
Just to add context for those not aware of the impact of this story.
The reason it was so important for narrative purposes, was that the plot concerns the visit of the Astronaut, in his completely opaque spacesuit, to a planet populated entirely by self-aware robots (originally from Earth) who have built their own society and are petitioning to be allowed to interact with Earth again as equals.
They have a democratic government and free choice of careers etc. as the orange robot serving as guide tells the Astronaut.
The Astronaut notices that there are two different types of robot on this world; the orange ones, who are in charge, gifted access to all information and facilities. and the blue robots, who are seen as more limited in function, have less access to information and resources, and are not allowed positions of power or as wide a choice of employment opportunities. Even transportation is segregated.
The Astronaut investigates further and discovers that the blue and orange robots are actually structurally identical, there is absolutely no difference between their potential or capabilities, and it is only because the orange robots are instructed by their Educator system to consider themselves superior, that the difference exists.
The Astronaut tells the robots they are not ready for re-alignment with Earth, until they come to terms with their own unfairness, and how Earth had had to deal with this issue themselves. When that time comes, the robots will be able to ally with Earth.
Then he leaves in his spaceship, and it's only in that one final panel that we see the Astronaut is black.
Not subtle, nor should it be, but for 1950 this was a breathtakingly powerful statement, perhaps the first of it's kind in the genre.
The black character was not a caricature, or comedy relief, he was a main character in his own right, a human who "simply" was black.
Ok, but this story is sadly revolutionary even now.
That is not just a human who happens to be black, as far as every other character in this story is concerned this is the most important, maybe even the only human they ever see, who happens to be black.
As depressing as that is, but a black person just casually representing the entirety of humanity is a breathtakingly powerfull statement even today, a quarter of a century later.
So I just saw a post by a random personal blog that said “don’t follow me if we never even had a conversation before” and?????? Not to be rude but literally what the fuck??????????
I’ve had people (non-pornbots) try to strike conversation out of nowhere in my DMs recently, and now I’m wondering if they were doing that because they wanted to follow me and thought they needed to interact first. I feel compelled to say, just in case, that it’s totally okay to follow this blog (or my side blog, for that matter) even if we’ve never talked before.
Also, I’m legit confused. Is this how follow culture works right now? It was worded like it’s common sense but is that really a thing?
Saw a sharp increase in my follower count after posting this. The legitimacy of it is driving me nuts so I also feel the need to say that you can follow anyone on here regardless of whether you’ve interacted with them or not. People like the above mentioned blog are exceptions. Perhaps they themselves think they aren’t and therefore will act like they aren’t, but they are, trust me.
Just follow anyone you wanna follow. The worst thing that can happen is maybe getting soft-blocked by the other person, but if they do soft-block you, then they were never that worth following in the first place.
So I can’t brush my teeth. Like, it’s the worst kind of hell. I went to the dentist for a cleaning today and I told the hygienist this, and she was wonderfully helpful.
There are some incredibly soft toothbrushes available- namely, post-surgical brushes. Running them under hot water makes them even softer.
She told me that you don’t really need to use toothpaste- it’s mostly marketing. The foam gets to me, so that is really reassuring.
She gave me two particularly soft brushes and some xylitol gum. Trident is a market brand of xylitol gum, which helps with your teeth and can make your breath smell better.
The whole purpose of brushing is to disrupt plaque buildup. You don’t need to brush twice a day, every day with toothpaste if you brush correctly- little circles, focusing on near the gums (where most plaque builds up). So if you’re having a bad sensory day and can’t brush at all, it’s not the end of the world.
Hell, you don’t even need a toothbrush if even the post-surgical ones are too harsh. Going over your teeth with the same motions using a washcloth is enough.
She wants to find a fluoride rinse that has a taste I can stand (peppermint is the only mint I can stand) but she’s not particularly worried about it.
I go to Dr. Barr in Chicago. If you can get to the State St. Macy’s, his office is nearby. He’s very kind and patient and really understanding of my needs as an autistic person. The hygienist, I don’t know her name, announced everything she was going to do before she did it, and stopped frequently to see how I was doing.
This is really the only positive dentist I’ve ever had- past dentists have been too rough and not bothered to help find ways I can actually brush.
Basically this is a glowing recommendation for Dr. Barr’s office if you’re autistic, afraid of dentists, or have sensory needs. This is a recommendation even if you don’t have any of those things.
If you were feeling guilty about your brushing habits, either due to sensory issues, pain, allergies, executive dysfunction, or just plain fatigue, here’s what you need to know about what is and isn’t necessary if your dental care!
Post-covid, I got really horrible shit going on with my gag reflex where for some reason the mint flavor of toothpaste (and only toothpaste) would make me gag so hard that I’d throw up. Then I found a kids toothpaste that’s like strawberry flavored or something, but it has the proper adult amount of flouride, so it works for me and I don’t gag much anymore. Here’s an article with some options if you’re like me lol
Dr. Gemma Wheeler lists best non-mint toothpaste options for adults. The list includes those that are truly non mint, without oils or aromas
Also for the people who can’t stand foam, the ingredient you’re looking to avoid is called SLS.
I share this frequently, but I had a very difficult time making myself floss because I hated the way that standard floss digs into my fingers when I use it. I switched to floss picks, and boom: A hated activity instantly became entirely neutral. Much easier to convince myself to do! If you have the same problem with standard floss, this might be worth a try.
Also, my most recent trip to the dentist, I was told that xylitol is a very effective treatment for dry mouth! And also that dry mouth is bad for your teeth, because it can disrupt the PH balance in your mouth, making your teeth more susceptible to cavities. While you want to be very careful to keep any xylitol products away from dogs in particular and probably pets in general, if you have dry mouth, you can try checking for products with xylitol in them.
Of note: My brother endorses the OraNusre brand of flavorless toothpaste; he says it “tastes like toothbrush”. My mom, meanwhile, is a fan of the Hello brand, which comes in different fruity and sweet flavors. Both of these are listed at the non-mint toothpaste link above.
If you prefer a toothpaste or a mouthwash for dry mouth, I use Biotène; it’s not cheap, but brushing once a day with it, a tube of Biotène toothpaste lasts me around four to five months. As far as I’m aware, it’s only in mint flavor.
These dudes are fucking legit. They don’t just show up one day in court, either, they actually make friends with the kids and let them know they have a support system and that there are people in the world who care about them and will always have their back. And less important, but also cool, is that the few times a couple of them have come into my cafe, they’ve been super friendly and polite and when I told one of the guys that I noticed his Bikers Against Child Abuse patch and wanted him to know how awesome I thought he was because of it, he got kind of shy and blushed and said, “The kids are the awesome ones, we just let them know they’re allowed to be brave.”
The source is long, but so, so good. These men and women are available in 36 states, 24 hours a day to stand guard at home, in court, at school, even if the child has a nightmare. Many of them are survivors of childhood abuse as well, and know what it’s like to feel scared and alone.
In court that day, the judge asked the boy, “Are you afraid?” No, the boy said.
Pipes says the judge seemed surprised, and asked, “Why not?”
The boy glanced at Pipes and the other bikers sitting in the front row, two more standing on each side of the courtroom door, and told the judge, “Because my friends are scarier than he is.”
Bikers Against Child Abuse was founded in 1995 by a Native American child psychologist whose ride name is Chief, when he came across a young boy who had been subjected to extreme abuse and was too afraid to leave his house. He called the boy to reach out to him, but the only thing that seemed to interest the child was Chief’s bike. Soon, some 20 bikers went to the boy’s neighborhood and were able to draw him out of his house for the first time in weeks.
Chief’s thesis was that a child who has been abused by an adult can benefit psychologically from the presence of even more intimidating adults that they know are on their side. “When we tell a child they don’t have to be afraid, they believe us,” Arizona biker Pipes told azcentral.com. “When we tell them we will be there for them, they believe us.”
( Article)
My parents are a part of this organization and they are metal af
They go on runs to protect the child if they feel even the slightest threatened no matter where. If the child needs them to go on vacation with them, they do. Bikers come from across the nation to watch over and take shifts for these kids. And the best part is once you’re adopted into this family as a BACA kid, you’re always one. Even when you’re 40 and the perp gets released from jail, they’ll come meet with you and find your best options for avoiding the person and maintaining the life you’ve built for yourself. Once a BACA child, always a BACA child. In Florida, there’s 100% rate for identifying the perp based on the child’s testimony. Why? Because BACA stands with the child and supports the child so they feel comfortable enough to point out their attacker.
What’s better than a badass biker gang being on your side???
NATIVE AMERICAN CHILD PSYCHOLOGIST WHO IS A BIKER AND NAMED HIMSELF CHIEF HELL YES I’M HERE FOR THAT AND BIKERS BEING BAD ASS TO PROTECT KIDS. HELL YEAH.
Guys? This post changed my life. I saw this post. Forever ago. And thought it was only in america… and wished desperately that they could help me. But then I saw it again, during a bad episode, and checked their site. They aren’t just in the USA
They’re in Canada as well and probably other countries. I met and talked with a native guy who runs the place near me. His name is Shaman. I got in, and I’m considered a BACA child now. Despite being 17, turning 18 when I talked to them. They spent time with me when my abuser was over, they gave me therapy resources. They give you something called a ‘level 1′ where they go to your house with as many bikers as they can, i shit you not a solid 20-40 bikers came from even out of province, and met me. I got to choose my biker name and I got a vest with patches on it and my name on it. They all hugged a Teddybear before giving it to me, and told me if I ever felt the BACA bear was running out of love, to give them a call and they’d refill it for me, and then I got a ride on one of their bikes. Just a day or so ago I went to an annual party with them and they we ate food one of them cooked and had a lot of laughs.
I’ve never felt as loved as I did being a part of the BACA family. They also gave me dog tags with the names, and phone numbers of my 2 workers. So I can call them whenever I feel scared.
BACA is an absolutely wonderful group that will do everything in it’s power to help any child whos been abused.
And it doesn’t end when you’re 18 either. As long as you get in contact/get your level 1 before you’re 18? you’re ALWAYS a BACA kid. I’m 18 now and they still invite me to parties, ask me if I’m okay, and are there for me. They’re still trying to find me resources for therapy.
BACA has changed my fucking life.
I hope you all can read this, and reblog it knowing from someone who fucking been with them, that they are absolutely amazing.
Had seen this before, but never realised that this is on an international level - there’s even a contact address close to where I live (in Germany), very cool (though hoping the only use I’ll ever have to make of it is for donations) ❤
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in america at least, in this situation, there isnt one. either your loved ones or the firemen can get you out using the emergency fire escapes or stairs, or you die
last summer my friend who is an amazingly talented artist and i were in this super tall building, and she’s in a wheelchair and i’m pushing her around the room. it’s an art exhibit and some of her art was chosen to be showcased there and so it’s all fine and dandy until suddenly an alarm starts going off
a FIRE ALARM
everyone starts running for the stairs and my friend just looks at me with this forlorn look on her face
“i can’t go down the stairs”
but i’m a stubborn bitch “i’ll carry you”
“what about my chair? it’s too expensive for me to be able to get another one if i can’t get this one back”
“i’ll carry that too”
and i did. we went to the stairs (by then most people from our floor were gone) and i lifted her up in a fireman’s carry over my shoulder and then lifted her chair up and used the ridiculous amount of adrenaline that was coursing through my veins to make it down approximately 20 half-flights of stairs until we met some people exiting lower floors, one of which who kindly took the chair. I changed positions so i was holding my friend bridal-style which was, somehow, easier and the person who took her wheelchair (with her permission to handle it of course) accompanied me to the ground floor and then out the doors
basically there is no real protocol for people who can’t use the stairs in an emergency. it’s up to the people with them, if anyone, to help them or the person to somehow make it down the stairs alone, unassisted
thank fuck that it was just a faulty alarm system, because if i was unable to carry her down those stairs and the building was on fucking fire???? then i don’t know what would have happened to her, but i don’t think it would have been very good.
it’s fucking ridiculous and ableist to the absolute max.
I use a cane. When I did a day-long fire safety training at my northeast American university (UMass Amherst), I asked that exact same question: “what am I supposed to do if the fire alarm goes off and I’m in my lab on the twelfth floor?”
the fire marshal hemmed and hawed for a while and then said to take the elevator- you’re supposed to leave it free for the fire department to use and they want able-bodied people out fast not waiting for elevators. if the fire alarm has just gone off the building probably hasn’t suffered enough structural damage to make using the elevator dangerous, and modern elevator wells are heavily reinforced. many large and high-trafficked buildings on my campus have fire rated elevators that link in with the fire alarm system so they won’t let you off on a floor with a possible fire.
if the elevator isn’t working, wait in the stairwell and call the fire department to let them know where you are. modern stairwells are also heavily reinforced- it might not be pleasant but modern building code usually requires fire-resistant stairwell doors in office and big residential buildings, also to help firefighters get in and out safely. older buildings’ stairwells may or may not be retrofitted with fire-resistant doors but a stairwell is generally the safest place to wait if you can’t get out.
what happened to your friend was horrible, and i’m very glad you were there to help her out, but you can absolutely use the elevator to evacuate if it’s not shut down. those don’t-use-the-elevator rules are for abled people.
Okay, firefighter here. If you are not physically able to use the stairs, and the elevator is NOT compromised, use the elevator. But you MUST be ABSOLUTELY CERTAIN that the elevator is NOT compromised before you get into it, because there is always the chance that once you get into it, you may not exit it. Power could go out. The elevator may actually BE compromised and you just couldn’t tell from where you were until you were in there, and it suddenly shuts down on you. Something else could happen.
Understand that once you enter the elevator, you could POTENTIALLY be taking your life into your hands there.
It is NOT LIKELY, to be perfectly honest. It’s only in a pretty catastrophic scenario - think the Twin Towers, USA, on September 11th - that the elevators will be compromised and out of service. But there is a NOT ZERO PERCENT CHANCE and you need to understand that and accept it.
As for leaving the elevators free for the firefighters, okay, here’s the deal. Unless your nearest fire station is literally right next door? Your first on scene fire truck is NOT likely to be there on scene and needing that elevator before you get to the ground. It takes us TIME to find the address, gear up, and drive to the building. Then we need to hoof it into where the elevators even ARE, so YOU HAVE TIME to use the elevator to get down to the ground floor... BUT ONLY IF THERE’S NOT A RUSH ON THE ELEVATOR! And THAT is WHY we don’t tell people this shit. That’s WHY we tell people to NEVER USE THE ELEVATOR... because every self-entitled asshole will use it because they don’t feel like walking, and then put YOU in danger by delaying the elevator’s arrival to you.
IF, however, the elevator IS compromised, or you just can’t get it to come for you, or whatever, and you either don’t have anyone with you who has the adrenaline fueled BALLS to be able to toss you over their shoulder and hoof it down the stairs with you - because, let’s face it, that is RARE AS FUCK, then HERE IS WHAT YOU DO:
You call 911 and tell the call taker that you are in the building that has a fire alarm going off, and you are not able to evacuate because of a physical disability, and you tell them what floor you are on, and EXACTLY what stairwell you are waiting at. And the very FIRST thing that the firefighters are going to do once they arrive, if it is, indeed, a REAL emergency, and not a false alarm, is come get your ass and bring you down. Whether that means carrying you down the stairs, or whether that means locking out the elevators so that no one else can override them and coming to get you themselves, they WILL come get you FIRST THING if it is a real event. And if it is a false alarm? You will probably be the first person who is not involved with the building to know, because the call-taker is going to stay on the line with you until you are under someone’s care and out of danger, or until the scene has been sorted out as real or false, and you are out of danger that way.
These are pretty standard operations in the fire service throughout the United States. There may be some minor variations based on specific municipalities, but, for the most part, this is pretty typical: LIFE BEFORE PROPERTY. So, as long as SOMEONE knows where you are - hence why you call 911 - Firefighters will come get you. You are NOT alone, and you have NOT been abandoned. I PROMISE. It’s like, our whole reason for doing the shit we do: to save lives and to break shit. Sometimes, we get lucky enough to do both at the same time.
High rise fires suck ass, and I always hated them. But the very FIRST thing I asked anytime we got one was if we had “any entrapments” - which is what we call anyone who could not self-evacuate for ANY reason. We ain’t leaving you behind. And yes, your friend who doesn’t have the stamina to carry you down can stay with you, too. Because I would never ask that of someone, honestly.
Also, just a little FYI... MOST fire alarms are false alarms. Not to make anyone complacent or anything, but, yeah. Most of them are either system malfunctions, someone accidentally hit a pull station, or someone burned popcorn in a break room. So don’t let a fire alarm freak you out until you need it to - by smelling or seeing smoke or flames.
If disabled and the fire alarm is just happened, you're allowed to take the elevators down but there's a small possibility you could get stuck if the elevators are compromised.
If you can't use the elevators or don't want that risk, go to the stairwell which is reinforced against fire, close the doors, and call 911 to let them know you are in that particular stairwell and can't get down.
Fire will strongly prioritize finding and rescuing people who might be still in the building during any actual structure fire. This is a major component of their job.
Fire people won't arrive in the course of one elevator run and actually half the deal with "don't use elevators" is supposed to be "leave it for people who need it in the emergency" which is both fire AND disabled people.
i keep seeing ppl being like "just get an id, what's the big deal?" about the potential voter registration restrictions, and let me tell you a story i am actively dealing with
i work with unhoused people fleeing domestic violence, and i have a client rn whose driver's license expired in 2024, and she needs a new id to apply for apartments. ok, cool. problem is, she lost all her documents due to the domestic violence
so we call the dmv. dmv needs a birth certificate. like i said, she lost her birth certificate. she needs a new one. her birth certificate is from out of state
we look up how to get a new birth certificate. the birth certificate needs an id to order it. cool cool cool
ok then what about secondary options? well, she needs two secondary sources of identification to order a replacement birth certificate, and she only has one, because for everything else she needs an id. fishing license? need an id. fucking park pass? id. she could have her 18+ child use their birth certificate to vouch for her, except her abuser won't let her talk to her children, so that's a no go
ultimately we land on social security card. this is where we're at in the process rn. ofc she doesn't have her ss card, so we need to order that. social security also requires an id to request a new card, but they'll take a health insurance card with a picture attached (god fucking bless them). she has medicaid but doesn't have a physical copy of the card, so we have to figure out how to get that. then once we do that we have to upload it to the social security website, and if that doesn't work, we have to, god forbid, call the social security office (takes literal hours) and then make an appointment. she doesn't have transportation or cell service, so we would have to figure out a way to coordinate me getting her to the appointment in order to present the document
then we wait 10+ days for the replacement, that has to be mailed to me bc she is unhoused and doesn't have an address
then we need to submit her request for a new birth certificate, which we have to figure out how to pay for, bc it is not free. they're at least a month behind on requests, btw, so we are probably looking at may at the earliest for that to arrive
then we need to take the birth certificate to the dmv
dmv also requires two pieces of mail not from a po box. she doesn't have an address, she is unhoused. she can use the homeless shelter in town, but we will need to mail her stuff there and have her receive it first, and also then the homeless shelter address will now be on her new id, which landlords will recognize and may discriminate against her for
during all of this she is sleeping in a garage. it was negative one degrees this morning. also, forgot to mention, she is terminally ill. some days i legitimately don't know if she lived through the night. every day is a toss up
the absolute soonest she will have an id is probably late may. forget voter registration--most rentals won't let her apply without it. she won't be offered section 8 housing without it. she can't apply for ssdi without it. she is blocked at literally every corner without it, and the absolute soonest she can get it is late may. the dmv literally has her old card on file, and she knows the number by heart, but it doesn't matter. it doesn't count if it's expired, as if she's somehow become someone new
and that's all with the help of someone whose job it is to do this shit. imagine if she didn't have a caseworker. she has a ten year old donated iphone that only works on wifi, she can't even do her own research bc she doesn't have internet half the time. how the hell is she supposed to get anything done on her own?
so yeah, fuck you if you think requiring an id isn't voter discrimination. "just get an id" is privileged af thinking and it infuriates me every time i hear it. lawmakers know exactly what they're doing with that restriction, and it's absolute bullshit
A lot of people think lawyers are very professional and put together, like the most adulty adults there are - however I can tell you that whenever he's in court waiting his turn for a hearing or whatever he's doing there that day I know I'm about to get an influx of memes and Lego sets he wants to buy from my lawyer
Last week lawyer husband texted me "You don’t have to be self conscious about starting your hearings late…I’m still wait for the judge to come out 🙄 " I responded "lol I hope they come out like a headliner. Maybe some glitter cannons"
My favorite is still the time we had a kid home sick, and I got to hear him say in a deposition "please ignore co-counsel Peppa Pig, who is not authorized to ask questions at this time."
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An attorney in the court system I work in got caught using ChatGPT to write a motion because it literally imagined case law which this person then signed their name to. You know, like a crime.
