Esque Quotes

Nerd girls are the world’s most underutilized romantic resource. And guys, do not tell me that nerd girls are not hot because that shows a Paris Hilton-esque failure to understand hotness.

I always considered myself a loner. I mean, not like a poor-me, Byron-esque, I-should-have-brought-a-swimming-buddy loner. I mean the sort of person who doesn’t feel too upset about the prospect of a weekend spent seeing no one, and reading good books on the couch. It wasn’t like I was a people hater or anything. I enjoyed activities and the company of friends. But they were a side dish. I always thought I would be happy without them.

You have a tattoo of a woman's necklace on you back, Silas." She's smiling now. "Very lumberjack-esque." She's enjoying this. "Yeah, well. You have trees on you back. Not much to brag about. You'll probably get termites.

I´m just not sending out the right vibe lately. Perhaps the fact that I wear stained sweatpants and free T-shirts is holding me back. I just can´t seem to get back into the intelligent-slut-for-hire outfits that lure men; even shoes with laces evade me. Plus my hair is Fran Lebowitz-esque. I think my eyes are getting closer together. I don´t know.

You wanna be the next Tolkien? Don't read big, tolkien-esque fantasies. TOLKIEN didn't read big, tolkien-esque fantasies. He read books on finnish philology. You go and read outside your comfort zone, go and learn stuff. And then the most important thing, once you get any level of quality--get to the point where you wanna write, and you can write--is tell YOUR story. Don't tell a story anyone else can tell. Because you always start out with other people's voices... There will always be people who are better or smarter than you. There are people who are better writers than me, who plot better than I do, but there is no one who can tell a Neil Gaiman story like I can.

Payton grinned. “You must be Chase.” As she extended her hand in introduction, she took the opportunity to give him a more thorough once-over. He had dark wavy hair and warm brown eyes. Very Pat-rick Dempsey/McDreamy-esque. Good build, not terribly tall, maybe only five-ten-ish, but since Payton measured in at exactly five-three and one-third inch, she could work with this

But there's always a chance she's hiding a flask and a Nixon-esque Enemies List in her pinafore apron, which is exactly why we're such good friends.

Shakespeare esque!

The pink tips were pure punk, but the bleach blond roots were positively Malfoy-esque.

It is kind of dungeon-esque,” I murmured to her. “Who uses stone this dark for a wine cellar? I’d expect something more Tuscan.

I’d once again see that bob of blonde hair back on my pillow, that pink hot smile beaming toward me as I heroically win her heart in some kind of Count of Monte Cristo or Great Gatsby-esque gesture… you know minus the long imprisonment or swimming pool death!

This is a mess. A mess! Shraplin, you’re probably sober-esque. How many cards in a standard deck?” “Sixty, boss.” “How many cards presently visible in our hands or on the table?” “Seventy-eight.” “That’s ridiculous,” said Amarelle. “Who’s not cheating?

Poetic Terrorism WEIRD DANCING IN ALL-NIGHT computer-banking lobbies. Unauthorized pyrotechnic displays. Land-art, earth-works as bizarre alien artifacts strewn in State Parks. Burglarize houses but instead of stealing, leave Poetic-Terrorist objects. Kidnap someone & make them happy. Pick someone at random & convince them they're the heir to an enormous, useless & amazing fortune--say 5000 square miles of Antarctica, or an aging circus elephant, or an orphanage in Bombay, or a collection of alchemical mss. ... Bolt up brass commemorative plaques in places (public or private) where you have experienced a revelation or had a particularly fulfilling sexual experience, etc. Go naked for a sign. Organize a strike in your school or workplace on the grounds that it does not satisfy your need for indolence & spiritual beauty. Graffiti-art loaned some grace to ugly subways & rigid public monuments--PT-art can also be created for public places: poems scrawled in courthouse lavatories, small fetishes abandoned in parks & restaurants, Xerox-art under windshield-wipers of parked cars, Big Character Slogans pasted on playground walls, anonymous letters mailed to random or chosen recipients (mail fraud), pirate radio transmissions, wet cement... The audience reaction or aesthetic-shock produced by PT ought to be at least as strong as the emotion of terror-- powerful disgust, sexual arousal, superstitious awe, sudden intuitive breakthrough, dada-esque angst--no matter whether the PT is aimed at one person or many, no matter whether it is "signed" or anonymous, if it does not change someone's life (aside from the artist) it fails. PT is an act in a Theater of Cruelty which has no stage, no rows of seats, no tickets & no walls. In order to work at all, PT must categorically be divorced from all conventional structures for art consumption (galleries, publications, media). Even the guerilla Situationist tactics of street theater are perhaps too well known & expected now. An exquisite seduction carried out not only in the cause of mutual satisfaction but also as a conscious act in a deliberately beautiful life--may be the ultimate PT. The PTerrorist behaves like a confidence-trickster whose aim is not money but CHANGE. Don't do PT for other artists, do it for people who will not realize (at least for a few moments) that what you have done is art. Avoid recognizable art-categories, avoid politics, don't stick around to argue, don't be sentimental; be ruthless, take risks, vandalize only what must be defaced, do something children will remember all their lives--but don't be spontaneous unless the PT Muse has possessed you. Dress up. Leave a false name. Be legendary. The best PT is against the law, but don't get caught. Art as crime; crime as art.

As winter went on, longer than long, we both freaked out. My mania grew to insane proportions. I sat in the study room at night, wildly typing out Dali-esque short stories. I sat at my desk in our room, drinking tea, flying on speed. She'd bang into the room in a fury. Or, she'd bang into the room, laughing like a maniac. Or, she'd bang into the room and sit under the desk eating Nutter-Butters. She was a sugar freak. She'd pour packets of sugar down her throat, or long Pixie-Stix. She was in constant motion. At first I wondered if she too had some food issues, subsisting mostly on sugar and peanut butter-and-jelly sandwiches on Wonder Bread, but my concern (as she pointed out) was “total transference, seriously, Max. Maybe you're just hungry.” Some Saturdays, we'd go to town together, buy bags and bags of candies, Tootsie Rolls (we both liked vanilla best; she always smelled delicious and wore straight vanilla extract as perfume, which made me hungry), and gummy worms and face- twisting sour things and butterscotch. We'd lie on our backs on the beds, listening to The Who and Queen, bellowing, “I AM THE CHAMPION, YES I AM THE CHAMPION” through mouths full of sticky stuff, or we'd swing from the pipes over the bed and fall shrieking to the floor.

Are you alright?" Jonathan stood before me, also soaked, though his hair looked quite... well, Darcy-esque; there was really no other word for it. Colin Firth and Jane Austen had ruined us chicks for other men, let's face it.

After fifteen years of making my living in stand-up, The Sarah Silverman Program has been a lesson in collaboration. Rob, Dan, and I live by the mantra "Whoever is most passionate." If I was mentoring someone, that's the Shandling-esque advice I would proffer: Find people you really respect and trust, and then at each decision, heed the most passionate voice. I love that because it eliminates nearly all struggle. And when you're doing a show that's mostly about farts, penises, and vaginas, there should be as little struggle as possible.

Leyner's fiction is, in this regard, an eloquent reply to Gilder's prediction that our TV-culture problems can be resolved by the dismantling of images into discrete chunks we can recombine as we fancy. Leyner's world is a Gilder-esque dystopia. The passivity and schizoid decay still endure for Leyner in his characters' reception of images and waves of data. The ability to combine them only adds a layer of disorientation: when all experience can be deconstructed and reconfigured, there become simply too many choices. And in the absence of any credible, noncommercial guides for living, the freedom to choose is about as "liberating" as a bad acid trip: each quantum is as good as the next, and the only standard of an assembly's quality is its weirdness, incongruity, its ability to stand out from a crowd of other image-constructs and wow some Audience.

Bwahahahahaha! Happy Halloweeeeen!” I turn away from the closet—where I was just in the process of trying to find a Halloween-esque outfit that’s not a costume because I fucking hate dressing up—and gawk at the creature gracing my doorway. I can’t make heads or tails of what Allie is wearing. All I see is a skintight blue bodysuit, lots of feathers, and…are those cat ears? I steal Allie’s trademark phrase by demanding, “What on God’s green planet are you supposed to be?” “I’m a cat-bird.” Then she gives me a look that says, uh-doy. “A cat bird? What is…okay…why?” “Because I couldn’t decide if I wanted to be a cat or a bird, so Sean was like, just be both, and I was like, you know what? Brilliant idea, boyfriend.” She grins at me. “I’m pretty sure he was being a smartass, but I decided to treat the suggestion as gospel.” I have to laugh. “He’s going to wish he suggested something less ridiculous, like sexy nurse, or sexy witch, or—” “Sexy ghost, sexy tree, sexy box of Kleenex.” Allie sighs. “Gee, let’s just throw the word sexy in front of any mundane noun and look! A costume! Because here’s the thing, if you want to dress like a ho-bag, why not just go as a ho-bag? You know what? I hate Halloween.

Trust me. I’ve seen it in London and I’ve seen it with shipwreck. Death by scurvy is worse. It would be better if the Thing took us all tonight. And with that we went below to the flame-flickering Darkness of the lower deck and to a cold almost the equal of the Dante-esque Ninth Circle Arctic Night without.

He knew he was sounding a little Holden Caulfield-esque calling everyone a phony, but he really did think everyone was a phony.

Acepto las condiciones, Angel, porque tú sabes mejor cuál tiene que ser mi castigo. Lo único que te pido es… que no sea más duro de lo que pueda soportar.

collects polymer toys, and does Groening-esque renditions of The Dream

TALIBAN-ESQUE Any behavior that imposes the beliefs of one person on everyone else. Conversations with the Taliban-esque are impossible. They aren't even conversations. WIth them, it's my way or no way.

While he attends to his rats, Persinger gives me the lowdown on the haunt theory. Why would a certain type of electromagnetic field make one hear things or sense a presence? What’s the mechanism? The answer hinges on the fact that exposure to electromagnetic fields lowers melatonin levels. Melatonin, he explains, is an anti-convulsive; if you have less of it in your system, your brain —in particular, your right temporal lobe— will be more prone to tiny epileptic-esque microseizures and the subtle hallucinations these seizures can cause.

Once value-laden facts become acceptable, then things like "racist facts" become acceptable, too – and then it becomes acceptable to reject any factual statement not because it is false, but because it is "racist”. Thus, any Obama-esque "national conversation about race" becomes impossible.

After watching Donald Trump on C-Span the other day, one can see it being easy to be convinced that what the public sees, at least from the press coverage, is just a bit of “reality television” spilling over into real life. His performance at the gathering was reminiscent of what may have happened had Archie Bunker walked out of the cartoon world of the television sitcom and went to speak at posh affair filled with the wax museum of Washington politicos and the buzzard-esque scowls of the press. All eyes fixed on the performer giving yet another exhibition of theatrical prowess.

I didn’t know it yet, but he would become one of our high school’s super-athletes. There were hints of athletic (and, presumably, sexual) prowess there. For one, boys as ridiculously Abercrombie- esque good-looking as he was are always sports stars throughout high school. It is a rule, a self- fulfilling prophecy. It seems as if, sometime during elementary school, coaches make note of the little boys with the most classic bone structure and the best height projections and kidnap them, training them under cover of night. Not all of them will make it in college ball (that’s what people call it, right?) because by the time they’re all seniors, many of them will have been riding more on the sportsman-like nature of their faces than their actual abilities. But until that day, coaches will keep putting them on the field in the most prominent and visually appealing positions because they just kind of look like that’s where they should be. At least I’m pretty sure that is what’s going on.

but just the very tips of the fingers, here, the most sensitive parts, the parts bathed in warm oil, the whorled pads, I feel them singing with nerves and blood I let them extend… further than the warm silver hip-flask’s cap’s very top down its broadening cone where to where the threads around the upraised little circular mouth lie hidden while with the other warm singing hand I gently grip the leather holster so I can feel the way the whole flask feels as I guide… guide the cap around on its silver threads, hear that? stop that and listen, hear that? the sound of threads moving through well-machined grooves, with great care, a smooth barbershop spiral, my whole hand right through the pads of my fingertips less… less unscrewing, here, than guiding, persuading, reminding the silver cap’s body what it’s built to do, machined to do, the silver cap knows, Jim, I know, you know, we’ve been through this before, leave the book alone, boy, it’s not going anywhere, so the silver cap leaves the flask’s mouth’s warm grooved lips with just a snick, hear that? that faintest snick? not a rasp or a grinding sound or harsh, not a harsh brutal Brando-esque rasp of attempted domination but a snick a… nuance, there, ah, oh, like the once you’ve heard it never mistakable ponk of a true-hit ball, Jim, well pick it up then if you’re afraid of a little dust, Jim, pick the book up if it’s going

She took a deep breath and it was her eighteenth birthday; it was Jess’s wedding and a summer evening at the pool; it was all those hundreds of times he’d been propped against her dorm building. And it was now, and she wanted to be this sophisticated, Audrey Hepburn-esque girl who gave him a coy smile and sauntered toward him, hips swinging. But this was Tam, and she wasn’t sophisticated for crap.

Her refusal, though unexpected, did not permanently daunt Clare. His experience of women was great enough for him to be aware that the negative often meant nothing more than the preface to the affirmative.

Ultimately, the important thing to companies isn't ethics. It's money and power. For decades, they've been happily complicit in this bullshit system as long as money was being made. Men like Harvey Weinstein aren't losing their careers because movie studios are growing spines and hearts. They're losing careers because of the Everest-esque mountain of damning evidence stacked against them and that the public outcry might make those studios lose money.

For God’s sake, enough. Fauci isn’t your friend. He’s a fiend. Franklin was one of our beloved Founding Fathers, but Fauci is an unfounding deadbeat dad. Nearly every premise he has asserted from the beginning has either been a well-intentioned or purposeful undermining of truth, the Constitution, the rule of law, common decency, and individual liberty. A year under Fauci’s thumb makes King George III’s madness look like the JV team, and that’s not even talking about the mental health cataclysm that awaits. His time as the Wormtongue-esque shadow casting a pall over our nation must come to an end. But for that freedom to return, our own fear that has become our idol has to go. Time to throw that idol into the fire…

I sprinkle some flour on the dough and roll it out with the heavy, wooden rolling pin. Once it’s the perfect size and thickness, I flip the rolling pin around and sing into the handle—American Idol style. “Calling Gloriaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa . . .” And then I turn around. “AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” Without thinking, I bend my arm and throw the rolling pin like a tomahawk . . . straight at the head of the guy who’s standing just inside the kitchen door. The guy I didn’t hear come in. The guy who catches the hurling rolling pin without flinching—one-handed and cool as a gorgeous cucumber—just an inch from his perfect face. He tilts his head to the left, looking around the rolling pin to meet my eyes with his soulful brown ones. “Nice toss.” Logan St. James. Bodyguard. Totally badass. Sexiest guy I have ever seen—and that includes books, movies and TV, foreign and domestic. He’s the perfect combo of boyishly could-go-to-my-school kind of handsome, mixed with dangerously hot and tantalizingly mysterious. If comic-book Superman, James Dean, Jason Bourne and some guy with the smoothest, most perfectly pitched, British-Scottish-esque, Wessconian-accented voice all melded together into one person, they would make Logan fucking St. James. And I just tried to clock him with a baking tool—while wearing my Rick and Morty pajama short-shorts, a Winnie-the-Pooh T-shirt I’ve had since I was eight and my SpongeBob SquarePants slippers. And no bra. Not that I have a whole lot going on upstairs, but still . . . “Christ on a saltine!” I grasp at my chest like an old woman with a pacemaker. Logan’s brow wrinkles. “Haven’t heard that one before.” Oh fuck—did he see me dancing? Did he see me leap? God, let me die now. I yank on my earbuds’ cord, popping them from my ears. “What the hell, dude?! Make some noise when you walk in—let a girl know she’s not alone. You could’ve given me a heart attack. And I could’ve killed you with my awesome ninja skills.” The corner of his mouth quirks. “No, you couldn’t.” He sets the rolling pin down on the counter. “I knocked on the kitchen door so I wouldn’t frighten you, but you were busy with your . . . performance.” Blood and heat rush to my face. And I want to melt into the floor and then all the way down to the Earth’s core.

Having grown up in this little town, I had attended countless street fairs, but I still felt comforted by the Norman Rockwell-esque nature of the scene as I felt like I was strolling in an oil painting of another era rather than an actual town. From my experience as a reporter in Philadelphia, our city streets and suburban neighborhoods were tougher and grittier than ever before and so there was something comforting about small-town America. The feeling of community was much stronger, the streets much softer and warmer. Three times each summer, people drove long distances to Shelbyville to attend street fairs, but the truth was that the booths weren't any different than the booths at the street fairs in their cities and neighborhoods. They came to be comforted.

The red haired waitress arrived with their drinks, dancing about the table as she placed their orders in front of them. "Hiya, keeds. Peachy place, ain't it?" Before anyone could respond, she kicked her heels in the air and flitted off again. Waldo lit up a cigarette and tasted his drink. "Listen, I don't think we ought to stay here very long...." "No shit, Sherlock!" Brisbane chortled. "But first I want to have a little fun. I think I'm gonna talk to some of these guys." The fredneck left the table and walked over to a group of five men, all of them clad in the old baseball uniforms that were apparently quite popular at The One Year Wonder And All-Around Oddity Bar. They were huddled together on one side of the bar, and Brisbane broke into their conversation with a burst of fredneck chutzpah.

Woody Allen made a PBS television special called Men of Crisis: The Harvey Wallinger Story in 1971, a half-hour satire of Henry Kissinger. The mockumentary was a natural follow-up to Allen’s directorial debut, Take the Money and Run. It opened with a Kissinger-esque character played by Allen, complaining on the phone: “I want you to get an injunction against The Times. Yes, it’s a New York, Jewish, Communist, left-wing, homosexual newspaper. And that’s just the sports section.” President Nixon already believed PBS was against him and had sent word through Clay Whitehead of the White House Office of Telecommunications Policy that criticism of the administration would result in funding cuts. PBS screened the Woody Allen special for its legal department, which found nothing objectionable. Still, station president Ethan Hitchcock wrote a memo: “Under no account must it be shown.

Charlie’s body was on autopilot as she stirred bitters into old-fashioneds, and doctored abominable Smirnoff Ices with half shots of Chambored. Up on stage, a drag trio in sinister yet glittery Elvira-esque attire belted out songs from the nineties. Mixing drinks, she found herself glad of something to do with her hands, some distraction from the churn of her thoughts. In the hours before a job, adrenaline kicked in. She was alert, focused. As though she only truly came awake when there was a puzzle to solve, a potential triumph outside of the grinding pattern of days. Something other than getting up, eating, going to work, eating again, and then having a few hours before bed with which you could work out or do your laundry or have sex or clean the kitchen or watch a movie or get drunk. The grinding pattern was life, though. You weren’t supposed to yearn for something else.

One of the things that I have learned, one of the attainments of the long travails and tribulations, has been, I think, coming to a simpler sense of myself that I think correlates to a simpler sense of others. Something closer to what I now call the simple sense of being human, a sort of Wallace Stevens-esque formulation. I know that I can reach this in the audience, because when they start hearing a story, they wake up in this very clear, simple way. Almost like children. It’s the same thing: a child asks, “What’s going to happen next?” When they sense that a story is being told to them, they wake up. When they sense that it’s not being told anymore, they lose interest. I take this very seriously, because the sacred trust that allows openness is the precondition of the kind of exchange I want to have, the kind of relationship that I want to have. I don’t want to test that simple sense of being human. I don’t want to transform it.

Compared with a typical mail-order ad, the “imagine cable television” appeal is a much more subtle appeal to self-interest. Note that the benefits offered were not fantastic in a Caples-esque way. The gist was that you could avoid the hassle of leaving home (!) by ordering cable. Indeed, just hearing about the benefits, in the abstract, wasn’t enough to lure additional subscribers. It was only when people put themselves in the starring role—I can see myself watching a good movie at home with my hubby, and I can get up and check on the kids in the next room whenever I like … and think of all that babysitting money I’d save!—that their interest grew. This finding suggests that it may be the tangibility, rather than the magnitude, of the benefits that makes people care. You don’t have to promise riches and sex appeal and magnetic personalities. It may be enough to promise reasonable benefits that people can easily imagine themselves enjoying.

We’ve lost our way” is how another manifesto author, Andrew Hunt, put it in a 2015 essay titled “The Failure of Agile.” Hunt tells me the word agile has become “meaningless at best,” having been hijacked by “scads of vocal agile zealots” who had no idea what they were talking about. Agile has split into various camps and methodologies, with names like Large-Scale Scrum (LeSS) and Disciplined Agile Delivery (DAD). The worst flavor, Hunt tells me, is Scaled Agile Framework, or SAFe, which he and some other original manifesto authors jokingly call Shitty Agile for Enterprise. “It’s a disaster,” Hunt tells me. “I have a few consultant friends who are making big bucks cleaning up failed SAFe implementations.” SAFe is the hellspawn brainchild of a company called Scaled Agile Inc., a bunch of mad scientists whose approach consists of a nightmare world of rules and charts and configurations. SAFe itself comes in multiple configurations, which you can find on the Scaled Agile website. Each one is an abomination of corporate complexity and Rube Goldberg-esque interdependencies.

Music of the Grid: A Poem in Two Equations _________________________ The masses of particles sound the frequencies with which space vibrates, when played. This Music of the Grid betters the old mystic mainstay, "Music of the Spheres," both in fantasy and in realism. LET US COMBINE Einstein's second law m=E/C^2 (1) with another fundamental equation, the Planck-Einstein-Schrodinger formula E = hv The Planck-Einstein-Schrodinger formula relates the energy E of a quantum-mechanical state to the frequency v at which its wave function vibrates. Here h is Planck's constant. Planck introduced it in his revolutionary hypothesis (1899) that launched quantum theory: that atoms emit or absorb light of frequency v only in packets of energy E = hv. Einstein went a big step further with his photon hypothesis (1905): that light of frequency v is always organized into packets with energy E = hv. Finally Schrodinger made it the basis of his basic equation for wave functions-the Schrodinger equation (1926). This gave birth to the modern, universal interpretation: the wave function of any state with energy E vibrates at a frequency v given by v = E/h. By combining Einstein with Schrodinger we arrive at a marvelous bit of poetry: (*) v = mc^2/h (*) The ancients had a concept called "Music of the Spheres" that inspired many scientists (notably Johannes Kepler) and even more mystics. Because periodic motion (vibration) of musical instruments causes their sustained tones, the idea goes, the periodic motions of the planets, as they fulfill their orbits, must be accompanied by a sort of music. Though picturesque and soundscape-esque, this inspiring anticipation of multimedia never became a very precise or fruitful scientific idea. It was never more than a vague metaphor, so it remains shrouded in equation marks: "Music of the Spheres." Our equation (*) is a more fantastic yet more realistic embodiment of the same inspiration. Rather than plucking a string, blowing through a reed, banging on a drumhead, or clanging a gong, we play the instrument that is empty space by plunking down different combinations of quarks, gluons, electrons, photons,... (that is, the Bits that represent these Its) and let them settle until they reach equilibrium with the spontaneous activity of Grid. Neither planets nor any material constructions compromise the pure ideality of our instrument. It settles into one of its possible vibratory motions, with different frequencies v, depending on how we do the plunking, and with what. These vibrations represent particles of different mass m, according to (*). The masses of particles sound the Music of the Grid.

We do a thing in America, which is to label people “workaholics” and tell them that work is ruining their lives. It’s such a widespread opinion that it seems like the premise to every indie movie is “Workaholic mom comes home to find that her entire family hates her. It’s not until she cuts back on work, smokes a little pot, and takes up ballroom dancing classes with her neglected husband that she realizes what is truly important in life. Not work.” Working parents have now eclipsed shady Russian-esque operatives as America’s most popular choice of movie villain. And to some degree, I understand why the trope exists. It probably resonates because most people in this country hate their jobs. The economies of entire countries like Turks and Caicos are banking on US citizens hating their jobs and wanting to get away from it all. And I understand that. But it’s a confusing message for kids. The reason I’m bringing this up is not to defend my status as someone who always works. (I swear I’m not that Tiger Mom lady! I don’t think you need to play piano for eleven hours with no meals! Or only watch historical movies, then write reports on them for me to read and grade!) It’s just that, the truth is, I have never, ever, ever met a highly confident and successful person who is not what a movie would call a “workaholic.” We can’t have it both ways, and children should know that. Because confidence is like respect; you have to earn it.

All people have religions. It's like we have religion receptors built into our brain cells, or something, and we'll latch onto anything that'll fill that niche for us. Now, religion used to be essentially viral -- a piece of information that replicated inside the human mind, jumping from one person to the next. That's the way it used to be, and unfortunately, that's the way it's headed right now. But there have been several efforts to deliver us from the hands of primitive, irrational religion. The first was made by someone named Enki about four thousand years ago. The second was made by Hebrew scholars in the eighth century B.C., driven out of their homeland by the invasion of Sargon II, but eventually it just devolved into empty legalism. Another attempt was made by Jesus -- that one was hijacked by viral influences within fifty days of his death. The virus was suppressed by the Catholic Church, but we're in the middle of a big epidemic that started in Kansas in 1900 and has been gathering momentum ever since." "Do you believe in God or not?" Hiro says. First things first. "Definitely." "Do you believe in Jesus?" "Yes. But not in the physical, bodily resurrection of Jesus." "How can you be a Christian without believing in that?" "I would say," Juanita says, "how can you be a Christian with it? Anyone who takes the trouble to study the gospels can see that the bodily resurrection is a myth that was tacked onto the real story several years after the real histories were written. It's so National Enquirer-esque, don't you think?

Imagine you can see the whole Number Line and every one of the infinite individual points it comprises. Imagine you want a quick and easy way to distinguish those points corresponding to rational numbers from the ones corresponding to irrationals. What you're going to do is ID the rational points by draping a bright-red hankie over each one; that way they'll stand out. Since geometric points are technically dimensionless, we don't know what they look like, but what we do know is that it's not going to take a very big red hankie to cover one. The red hankie here can in truth be arbitrarily small, like say .00000001 units, or half that size, or half that half,...,etc. Actually, even the smallest hankie is going to be unnecessarily large, but for our purposes we can say that the hankie is basically infinitesimally small-call such a size (infinitesimally small symbol). So a hankie of size (infinitesimally small symbol) covers the N.L.'s first rational point. Then, because of course the hankie can be as small as we want, let's say you use only a (Infinitesimally small symbol)/2-size hankie to drape over the next rational point. And say you go on like that, with the size of each red hankie used being exactly (1/2) that of the previous one, for all the rational numbers, until they're all draped and covered. Now, to figure out the total percentage of space all the rational points take up on the Number Line, all you have to do is add up the sizes of all the red hankies. Of course, there are infinitely many hankies, but size-wise they translate into the terms in an infinite series, specifically the Zeno-esque geometric series (1/2^0 +1/2^1 + 1/2^2 +1/2^3 +1/2^4 + ...; and, given the good old a/1-r formula for summing such a series, the sum-size of all the infinite hankies ends up being 2*(Infinitesimally small symbol). But (Infinitesimally small symbol) is infinitesimally small, with infinitesimals being (as we mentioned in Section 2b) so incredibly close to 0 that anything times an infinitesimal is also an infinitesimal, which means that 2*(Infinitesimally small symbol) is also infintesimally small, which means that all the infinite rational numbers combined take up only an infinitesimally small portion of the N.L.-which is to say basically none at all-which is in turn to say that the vast, vast bulk of the points on any kind of continuous line will correspond to irrational numbers, and thus that while the aforementioned Real Line really is a line, the all-rational Number Line, infinitely dense though it appears to be, is actually 99.999...% empty space, rather like DQ ice cream or the universe itself.

that my obsession with Barbie © ended after I aged into the double digits, but it turns out that I just stopped collecting the dolls. My fascination with the glossy world of Barbie has continued, if not intensified as I got older, and I replaced my doll dresses with real dresses.However, it really took the Barbie Runway Show yesterday at the tents to remind me of the special place Barbie’s always occupied in my heart - and in those of little girls and grown up fashionistas everywhere. Everyone has a Barbie story. I fell in love with the doll after spotting it among its friends at a local supermarket at a very young age, and spent the next few years giving her haircuts and even making her clothes. The first pair of shoes I really loved were the pink heels Barbie wore. I was so disappointed that Barbie couldn’t actually stand up in them - though now years later I often face the same unfortunate results when I don on my most Barbie-esque of shoes, the Christian Louboutin Decollete. At any rate, during the show I realized that each girl’s fantasy of the Barbie world lives copyright

Danny couldn't remember how many times he had driven down this particular stretch of highway.

Even in the dead of night, fluorescent lights in the hard seat compartment never shut off. It’s a policy with a purpose — total darkness in a packed car would be an invitation to mayhem — but the unceasing illumination presents passengers waking at 4 a.m. with a Pompeii-esque tableau: hundreds of men, women and children slumped unconscious across the booths, sinks and stairwells.

I’ve been reading A Confederacy of Dunces, and for one, am wondering why I never read it before now, and two, have taken to having Ignatius J. Reilly-esque outbursts as I read SVH books. My thought about reading the above passage was “can I believe this revolting offense to literature? What an abortion to the eyes!

That tank," Bucktooth pointed at the gas gauge on the dashboard of the decidedly unfredneck-like '65 Dodge Dart, "is almost empty. We ain't going much farther." "Indeed it is." A solemn Phosphate agreed. "I suggest we stop the car and weigh our options." "What options?" Professor Buckley asked. "Why do-that is- we've been traveling up and down this path for over an hour without seeing anyone or encountering anything. Even the doughnut shop cannot be relocated. In light of this, what options do we have?" It was difficult to argue with the ex-history teacher's typically alarmist position. Brisbane's reliable old automobile had indeed been expending its remaining fuel supply in what seemed to be a hopeless effort to exit the unnamed dirt path. After leaving the doughnut shop and the blonde presidential descendant who worked there, they'd been unable to find DeMohrenschildt Lane again, or any other side street.

Waldo, I say-that is-aren't you tired, my boy?" Professor Buckley, suppressing a yawn, was unaccustomed to others matching his wakefulness wink for wink, as it were, and seemed jealous of the competition Waldo presented in that regard. "Who can sleep?" Waldo replied. "We're on another of these crazy roads, we can't find the interstate...." "Yes, I suppose you're right." The Professor interrupted, taking off his thick spectacles and polishing them on his bright tie. "I, on the other hand, never sleep, as I'm sure you're aware." Waldo smiled. The Professor had little in life to be vain about, and he wasn't going to stop him from expressing a little pride now and then.

Waldo nodded and waved goodbye pathetically, like a young father going off to war. As soon as the door was closed and he was gone, Jeanne squelched her own apprehensions, opened the paper and read the poem Waldo had written for her: One taste of Jeanne and out I flew Wildly, madly, in no direction But hers, and yet so straight and true I fly towards her with no protection It feels so strange to move this way Though I should land, desire it seems Moves in strange circles and so I stay Disoriented beyond my wildest dreams.

Wait just a moment, please.” He looked around as if making sure they weren’t observed, then led her rather forcefully to the side of the house where the moon and lamplight did not touch them. “Let go!” He did. “Miss Erstwhile, I believe it is in your best interest to tell me what you are doing out here.” “Walking.” She glared. She did not particularly enjoy being dragged by her arm. His eyes darted to the servants’ quarters. To Martin’s exact window. It made her swallow. “You are not doing something foolish, are you?” In fact, she was, but that didn’t mean she had to stop glaring. “I don’t know if you realize,” he said in his unbearably condescending tone, “but it is not proper for a lady to be out alone after dark and worse to cavort with servants…” “Cavort?” “When doing so might lead to trouble of the worst nature…” “Cavort?” “Look,” he said, slipping into slightly more colloquial tones, “just stay away from there.” “Aren’t you all righteous concern, Mr. Nobley? Five minutes ago, I’d planned on changing careers and becoming a dairymaid, but you’ve saved me from that fate. I’ll kindly release you back to the night and return to my well-bred ways.” “Don’t be a fool, Miss Erstwhile.” He returned the way he’d come, from the back of the house. “Insufferable,” she said under her breath. No, she wasn’t going to go to Martin’s, curse him, but she wasn’t going to run back to her room either, if just to spite Mr. Nobley. The man deserved to be spited. Or spitted. Or both. Though boring and cold and hateful, Mr. Nobley was the most Darcy-esque of them all, so she despised him with vigorous enthusiasm. Perhaps, she hoped, the exercise would count toward therapy and her ultimate Austenland recovery. “Grab my arm, will he?” she said, getting a speck of satisfaction by muttering like an old crazy woman. “Call me a fool…” She walked around the park in angry circles. Her fingers were cold, and her thoughts wandered to memories of spending so much time in the bath as a kid that her fingertips crinkled like raisin skin. Wrinkly skin reminded her of Great-Aunt Carolyn, with her extravagantly soft fingers and conspiratorial eyes. She bought me this gift, Jane thought. Use it well, you floppy-brained, hopeless idiot, and stop trying to fall in love with gardeners. With anyone.

The Douglas Coupland–esque environment in which I work every day does not deter me from laying it down on paper; on the contrary: celebrate dullness, I say.

The late American collector Robert H. Taylor said that a rare book is “a book I want badly and can’t find.” On the occasions that people answer seriously, they all agree that “rare” is a highly subjective moniker. The earliest use of the term has been traced to an English book-sale catalog in November 1692. But it wasn’t until the early eighteenth century that scholars attempted to define what makes a book rare, with bibliophile J. E. Berger making Monty Python-esque distinctions between “rarus” and “rarior” and “rarissiumus.” A book’s degree of rarity remains subjective, and the only qualities of “rare” that collectors and dealers seem to agree on is some combination of scarcity, importance, “and condition. Taste and trends play roles as well, however. When a movie adaptation is released, whether Pride and Prejudice or Nancy Drew, first editions of the book often become temporarily hot property among collectors. While Dickens will almost certainly be a perennial choice, Dr. Seuss’s star has risen as the children who were raised on his books have become adults with the means to form their own collections.

images changing from overhead shots of an airport to a hospital with doctors wearing hazmat-esque shields and gowns, crowded sidewalks, bustling markets, and packed-beyond-capacity subways, many of the people wearing surgical masks over their noses and mouths,

Lilian felt a fire burning in her soul, which manifested into ethereal flames that burned around her like an aura. She was so pumped up. They were going to do this! They had to do this! Then, once they started protesting, their sheer awesomeness would make everyone else snap to their senses and join them—just like in a shōnen manga! Yes, she could see it all now: Lilian stood in front of the camera, Kevin by her side, holding her hand. In front of them was a woman with a microphone and a cameraman stood behind her, filming their triumphant moment. “Ms. Pnév̱ma, you and your mate have just brought peace between humans and yōkai. What are you going to do next?” asked the woman with the microphone. “We’re going to celebrate by having sex!” Lilian declared. “Lots and lots of sex,” Kevin added. “Uh huh…” “And then we’re going to Disneyland!” The newscaster stared at her oddly, and even Kevin was looking at her like she’d said something strange. In response to their expressions, Lilian covered her mouth with her hand in a very Kotohime-esque manner. “Ufufufu, sorry. I’ve always wanted to say that at least once.

However, I’m not sure if modern reporters would even be allowed to perform that kind of watchdog function if a new Hitler-esque character emerged in the twenty-first century; he would probably just be referred to as a “charismatic, neoconservative upstart.

Being numb no longer suits me. It’s ill-fitting and I’m antsy about it. I find myself snapping back at people more. Or writing little Bailey-esque rants into my emails when someone’s upset me. I don’t want to be numb. I want to tell someone who has upset me to take their attitude and shove it right up their— Well, let’s just say that I am starting to prefer it to shoving some food in my mouth on top of my hurt feelings.

As we know it today, discipleship is mostly about that first kind of learning: the classroom experience. And really, that’s about it. We learn from the pastor’s teaching on Sunday. We learn from Bible studies. We go to Sunday School. We learn from small group discussion guides and DVDs. We learn from reading books. We learn from taking classes at church. Notice that all of this is completely information driven, in some sort of classroom-esque experience. There is virtually no apprenticing happening in our churches.

How can you be a Christian without believing in that?” “I would say,” Juanita says, “how can you be a Christian with it? Anyone who takes the trouble to study the gospels can see that the bodily resurrection is a myth that was tacked onto the real story several years after the real histories were written. It’s so National Enquirer-esque, don’t you think?

American evangelicalism, especially in some of the more “success in life” oriented forms, has cultivated a cheap, shallow, happy-clappy, Disney-esque culture that refuses to recognize that grief and lamentation are part of the necessary work that belongs to the people of God.

flor de jamaica If you’re looking for a very mocktail-esque nonalcoholic beverage, this might be the one. Little Pine’s favorite tea, hibiscus, is bolstered here by ginger beer, aka a teetotaler’s best friend, and finished simply with lime juice. I can almost promise you that if you keep the Flor de Jamaica on tap all summer long, you’ll discover a popularity heretofore unknown. TIME: 3 MINUTES SERVES: 1 ⅓ cup dried hibiscus flowers ⅓ cup sugar 1 ounce fresh lime juice 2 ounces (¼ cup) Iced Hibiscus Tea Ginger beer Lime wheel, for garnish Place the hibiscus flowers and sugar in a food processor. Pulse until the flowers are pulverized. (Be certain to use the pulse method to ensure the sugar doesn’t melt or heat up.) Pour the hibiscus sugar onto a small plate and set aside. Pour the lime juice and hibiscus tea into a pint glass. Add ice to fill the glass. Top off the glass with ginger beer. Cut a small notch in the lime wheel. Following the line of the notch, coat half the wheel in the hibiscus sugar by carefully and evenly pressing that half into the plate of hibiscus sugar. Position the lime wheel on the edge of the glass. Serve and enjoy.

Are you thinking of like, gang violence and I dunno, Trump-esque visions of inner-city communities?” Danny grimaces. “Uh. Sorry, I just. I really have no idea what anything outside of the OC is like.” “You’re Indonesian, dude.

Now that I'm on my fourth book on values, I feel a bit inadequate. I'm using a little bit of Woody-Allen-esque self-deprecation, but basically, that is true; it is hard to study legends like Twain, Socrates, King, Shaw, Gandhi and Keller and not feel like an underachiever.

All the sweet sounds of night fell on her ears, the grey slopes shimmered in the faint moonlight . . . The scene, the sounds, were all familiar to her, but unconsciously they awoke in her that satisfying delight, for which she had no words, and which only those who have lived alone with nature can understand.

I started to notice it in French films as well. While the female characters in American films make a ridiculous number of Sex and the City–esque wardrobe changes, in French films, more often than not, you will see the female lead wear the same outfit at least twice during the course of the film. You would never encounter this in American films unless the filmmaker wants to make a point that the character is poor or depressed.

A regular feature of a day’s filming would be visitors to set. They would generally be children and mostly the visits would be in aid of a children’s charity. Alan Rickman requested by far the most visits for charities that he supported. It seemed to me that he had a group in almost every day. And if anyone understood what a child wanted from a trip to the Harry Potter set, it was him. None of our visitors were that interested in meeting Daniel, Rupert, Emma or, for that matter, me. They wanted to meet the characters. They wanted to put on Harry’s glasses, to get a high five from Ron or a cuddle from Hermione. And since Daniel, Rupert and Emma were so similar in real life to their idea of the characters, they never disappointed. It was different for us Slytherins. I might have got the role of Draco in part because of the similarities between us, but I liked to think that I was not so Draco-esque that I’d be unpleasant to a group of nervous, excited youngsters. So I’d greet them, all smiles, and be as friendly and welcoming as I could be. “Hi, guys! Are you having fun? What’s your favourite set?” And crikey did I get that wrong. Without exception they’d look aghast and confused. Draco being a nice bloke was as anathema to them as Ron being a dickhead. They didn’t quite know how to process it. Alan understood this implicitly. He understood that while they might want to meet Alan Rickman, they’d much rather meet Severus Snape. Whenever he was introduced to these young visitors, he gave them the full Snape experience. They’d receive a clip round the ear and a terse, drawn-out instruction to tuck… your… shirt… in! The kids would be wide-eyed and joyfully terrified. It was a lovely thing to watch. I’d learn, as the years progressed, that some people find it difficult to distinguish between fact and fiction, between fantasy and reality. Sometimes that could be trying. But I wish I’d had Alan’s confidence to remain in character during some of those meet and greets at Leavesden Studios. There’s no doubt that in doing so, he brightened many a day.

I have been arrested before in NYC, and it is frightening and uncomfortable. But when I asked if I could now walk away and take my train — no one stopped me. The takeaway? When I refused to comply with these unlawful “mandates” that had burnt out the soul of a once-great city, nothing happened. The bullies, Governor Kathy Hochul and Mayor Eric Adams, who put these scary-sounding, Dear Leader-esque “edicts” in place

Both issues have articles by Elijah—one about a former boy band star who’s been cast in a Hallmark-esque Christmas movie,

We came to consciousness in a world where communism was a doomed proposition from the get-go, vanquished by our Reagan-esque grandfathers and manifestly genocidal to boot. Capitalism won fair and square: market forces work.

In my thirty-fourth year to heaven, I find myself at the copy machine of an exalted, ivy-embroidered university, pressing down on the spine of a memoir by Vladimir Nabokov. The green light under my hands slides over the book’s face, and the spillage from the edges scalds through my shut eyelids. It’s seven-thirty a.m., and I can feel the corpse tint of my face: Frankenstein-monster green. The machine goes whap…whap at slower intervals than the throb in my head, which sounds like thunk. The whaps stab me. The thunks make my eyes bulge in their sockets like a squeezed rubber doll’s. It’s my first year teaching six classes, which has freed me from the deeply respectable but non-writer-esque telecom consulting I could spend eighty hours a week at. Not a new-mom job by any stretch, that work. The sole vestige of the career? I’m on retainer freelancing for a business mag whose editor has left two strongly worded messages on our machine. I’m late with my article on the new Russian perestroika. Whap…thunk. The image of my blond three years’ son this morning, sobbing and holding out his arms to me while Warren strapped him into the child seat, is a hot stove I can’t stop touching. Warren drops him off at daycare now for reasons that are complex.

The Hamburglar strikes again! I thought as I stood on the sidewalk blocks away from the bank, as sirens pierced the sky — laughing like a lunatic.  The fucking black hat, man. What the fuck was that guy thinking? Dressed in a prison jump suit, donning a Zorro-esque sombrero. What was more insane? Me robbing a bank with a BB gun or a fucking fictitious character dead-set on ripping off a fast food chain? I digress. You can come to your own conclusions.

The Hamburglar strikes again! I thought as I stood on the sidewalk blocks away from the bank, as sirens pierced the sky — laughing like a lunatic. The fucking black hat, man. What the fuck was that guy thinking? Dressed in a prison jump suit, donning a Zorro-esque sombrero. What was more insane? Me robbing a bank with a BB gun or a fucking fictitious character dead-set on ripping off a fast food chain? I digress. You can come to your own conclusion.

Pierre wakes up for good. As he's lying there yawning, he vaguely remembers a couple of false starts inspired by a ringing phone. He looks to his left. It's eleven. Next thing, he's stumbling down the hall toward his phone machine. 'Wait. Coffee,' he whispers in a shredded voice, veering back into the kitchen. He does what he has to, then plays back the messages, sips. Beep. 'It's Paul at Man Age. Appointment, twelve-thirty P.M., hour, Gramercy Park Hotel, room three-forty-four, name Terrence. Later.' Beep. 'Paul again. Appointment, two P.M., Washington Annex Hotel, room six-twenty, a play-it-by-ear, name Dennis, I think the same Dennis from last night. Check with us mid-afternoon. You're a popular dude. Later.' Beep. 'P., it's Marv, you there? . . . No? . . . Call me at work. Love ya.' On his way to the shower Pierre makes a stop at the stereo, plays side one of Here Comes the Warm Jets, an old Eno album. It's still on his turntable. It has this cool, deconstructive, self-conscious pop sound typical of the '70s Art Rock Pierre loves. He doesn't know why it's fantastic exactly. If he were articulate, and not just nosy, he'd write an essay about it. Instead he stomps around in the shower yelling the twisted lyrics. ' "By this time / I'd got to looking for a kind of / substitute . . ." ' It's weird to get lost in something so calculatedly chaotic. It's retro, pre-punk, bourgeois, meaningless, etc. ' ". . . I can't tell you quite how / except that it rhymes with / dissolute." ' Pierre covers his ears, beams, snorts wildly. Tying his sneakers, he flips the scuffed-up LP, plays his two favorite songs on the second side, which happen to sit third and fourth, and are aurally welded together by some distorted synthesizer-esque percussion, maybe ten, fifteen seconds in length. Pierre flops back in his chair, soaks the interlude up. It screeches, whines, bleeps like an orgasming robot.

We had moved to a monolingual, pale world. Its language uniformity was so complete as to be creepy, zombie-esque. How the shopkeepers and mailmen spoke English confidently and pronounced all their vowels the same exact way. How within houses I visited, the kids, parents, and elders shared the same language and never paused for translation or to remember a word. Though Malvern folks didn’t pray to ancestors like mom did, I could tell that if they did, even their ghosts would speak English.

Is it an actual question? "You sure do have your hands full, don't you?" I don't even know if it's meant to be an insult or a light-hearted observation or even a compliment, something very American-esque about how incredible I must be at multitasking if for no other reason than because I have clearly had unprotected sex at least four times.

Am I really shopping with my Stephen King-esque cousins? If the metaphor wasn't apt before, it is now. I am definitely picturing the linen-papered walls running down in blood. Their imperial guards, a set of guys who chug Red Bulls and flip cars to stay in shape, are present. Reina has assured me multiple times that she "could take both of them," to which I readily agreed. I have no doubt in Reina's ability to throw down.

Zhou Hongyi was one of the most pugnacious of these entrepreneurs, but dirty tricks and anticompetitive behavior were the norm in the industry. Remember Wang Xing’s Facebook copycat, Xiaonei? After he sold it in 2006, the site reemerged as Renren (“Everyone”) and became the dominant Facebook-esque social network. But by 2008, Renren faced a scrappy challenger in Kaixin001 (kaixin means “happy” in Mandarin). The startup gained traction by initially targeting young urbanites instead of the college students already on Renren. Kaixin001 integrated social networking and gaming with products like “Steal Vegetables,” a Farmville knockoff, but one where people were rewarded not for cooperatively farming but for stealing from each other’s gardens. The startup quickly became the fastest growing social network around.

It is hard to appreciate now, but there was once a time before mobile phones and text messages when people communicated with each other by sticking notes to refrigerators using magnets. It got to be so commonplace that it became the secondary purpose of fridges themselves. Families would leave dinner instructions, teenagers would explain their whereabouts, and unhappy wives would initiate divorces, all using short Heminway-esque messages affixed at eye level using coloured magnetic letters. In fact there was a widespread panic in the refrigeration industry when text messages became popular. And then, when free texts became available, the National Association of Subzero Appliances (the other NASA, as they called themselves) brought a case to the Supreme Court, citing an infringement of their right to earn a livelihood.

The dining room’s accent wall was a shade of orange that made everyone who walked through the room take on a Velma-esque glow.

Twists, turns and double crosses in literary theft quickly expand to threaten the globe in: THE SLUSH PILE BRIGADE. At its core, the book is a solid thriller. It has clearly defined stakes and goals for the main characters. Marquis has laid the groundwork as a thriller writer and hopefully his following novels build up a James Patterson-esque empire. A promising debut from an up-and-coming thriller writer." ----IndieReader - 4.5/5 Stars (****1/2)

Celebrities who in the sixties had led Barbie-esque lives now forswore them. Jane Fonda no longer vamped through the galaxy as "Barbarella," she flew to Hanoi. Gloria Steinem no longer wrote "The Passionate Shopper" column for New York, she edited Ms. And although McCalVs had described Steinem as "a life-size counter-culture Barbie doll" in a 1971 profile, Barbie was the enemy. NOW's formal assault on Mattel began in August 1971, when its New York chapter issued a press release condemning ten companies for sexist advertising. Mattel's ad, which showed boys playing with educational toys and girls with dolls, seems tame when compared with those of the other transgressors. Crisco, for instance, sold its oil by depicting a woman quaking in fear because her husband hated her salad dressing. Chrysler showed a marriage-minded mom urging her daughter to conceal from the boys how much she knew about cars. And Amelia Earhart Luggage—if ever a product was misnamed—ran a print ad of a naked woman painted with stripes to match her suitcases.

fitness is the ability to recover quickly

The idea that parents shape their children’s personalities is so ingrained, and still supplies so many psychoanalysts with their livelihoods, that any challenge to it is bound to meet a lot of resistance. Yet the evidence has been getting more and more clear: variations in personality are determined by a combination of genes and random influences, but not by parents. The central premise of Freudian analysis – that childhood events cause adult psychological problems – has been shown to stand on no good evidence whatsoever. Says Harris: ‘The evidence does not support the view that talking about childhood experiences has therapeutic value.’ Remember, in the early twentieth century all the advice to parents stressed discipline; in the later part of the century, all the advice stressed indulgence. Yet there is absolutely no evidence that this caused a shift in human personality in the Western world. Because people wanted there to be something they could do about our actions and tendencies, they argued that there must be an agent to blame. The nurture assumption was fuelled by many factors – worries about a return to Nazi eugenics, Rousseau-esque idealism, the doctrines of Marx, Freud and Durkheim – but the root of its appeal lay in the need to think of somebody being in charge. Instead, the truth is that personality unfolds from within, responding to the environment – so in a very literal sense of the word, it evolves.

Someone—Tony or Warner Bros.?—had decided that the grueling schedule and the added tension in the band might be alleviated somewhat by the relative comfort of bus touring versus Old Blue. It was a nice idea. It might have even been a gambit to see if the camaraderie of sharing a luxurious living situation might heal the band’s broken bonds. So we loaded all of our gear into the parking lot behind our apartment and waited for our new accommodations to arrive. Everyone, I think even Jay, was excited about the prospect of spending at least some small part of our lives seeing what it was like to tour in style. That was until he laid eyes on the Ghost Rider. What we were picturing was sleek and non-ostentatious like the buses we had seen parked in front of theaters at sold-out shows by the likes of R.E.M. or the Replacements. Instead, what we got was one of Kiss’s old touring coaches—a seventies-era Silver Eagle decked out with an airbrushed mural in a style I can only describe as “black-light poster–esque,” depicting a pirate ship buffeted by a stormy sea with a screaming skeleton standing in the crow’s nest holding a Gibson Les Paul aloft and being struck by lightning. The look on Jay’s face was tragic. I felt bad for him. This was not a serious vehicle. I’m not sure how we talked him into climbing aboard, and once we did, I have no idea how we got him to stay, because the interior was even worse. White leather, mirrored ceilings, and a purple neon sign in the back lounge informing everyone, in cursive, that they were aboard the “Ghost Rider” lest they forget. So we embarked upon Uncle Tupelo’s last tour learning how to sleep while being shot at eighty miles per hour down the highway inside a metal box that looked like the VIP room at a strip club and made us all feel like we were living inside a cocaine straw. Ghost Rider indeed.

In September 2020, a Daily Kos/Civiqs poll reported that over half of the Republicans surveyed believed either partially or mostly in QAnon’s theories . . . at least the theories they were aware of. Because tumble further down the QAnon rabbit hole, and you’ll find Satanic Panic–esque, flagrantly fascist beliefs that not every subscriber even knows about (at least not at first): theories about Jeffrey Epstein co-conspiring with Tom Hanks to molest hordes of minors, Hillary Clinton drinking the blood of children in order to prolong her life, the Rothschilds running a centuries-old ring of Satan worshippers, and beyond. But QAnon quickly grew to encapsulate much more than stereotypical far-right extremists. Take a soft turn to the left, and you’ll find a more outwardly palatable denomination of conspiritualists whose paranoias might be slightly less focused on Hillary Clinton worshipping Satan and more on Big Pharma forcing evil Western medicine on them and their kids. These believers wield a slightly different glossary of loaded terms, some co-opted from feminist politics—like “forced penetration” (which conflates vaccination with sexual assault) and “my body, my choice” (an antivaxx/anti-mask slogan purloined from the pro-choice movement). Because social media algorithms track people’s keywords in order to feed them only what they’re already interested in, a sprawling spiderweb of customized QAnon offshoots was able to form.

When looking at the Mirror World, it can seem obvious that millions of people have given themselves over to fantasy, to make-believe, to playacting. The trickier thing, the uncanny thing, really, is that’s what they see when they look at us. They say we live in a “clown world,” are stuck in “the matrix” of “groupthink,” are suffering from a form of collective hysteria called “mass formation psychosis” (a made-up term). The point is that on either side of the reflective glass, we are not having disagreements about differing interpretations of reality—we are having disagreements about who is in reality and who is in a simulation. Curtis Yarvin, a house intellectual of the Bannon-esque right, says, “My job … is to wake people up from the Truman Show.” Naomi Wolf says that kids who wear masks in school turn into spooky, ghostlike creatures “becalmed … like Stepford kids.